


Fifty Shades of Purple

by Otoshigo



Category: 50 Shades of Grey - E. L. James, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Responsibly, BDSM kink, Contracts, Crossovers are fun, M/M, Non-Chronological, Please Don't Take This Seriously, USUK - Freeform, series of drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otoshigo/pseuds/Otoshigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble.  Alfred Jones and Arthur Kirkland have an agreement.  One that no one will ever need know about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Genre: Hetalia Magical Strike AU/Fifty Shades of Grey X-over  
> Warnings: BDSM Themes, NSFW  
> A/N: Okay, so I totally just hijacked the Magical Strike AU (sorry, Hima-sama!) and crossed it with Fifty Shades of Grey. It’s not my fault! Okay, it’s totally my fault. But that’s the first thing I thought of when I encountered double Megane for the first time at 4:30 AM this morning! So here’s a drabble for you.  
> Sidenote: I have zero problems with BDSM if people are mature enough to understand the difference between fantasy and reality.

Then Jones comes in.

Arthur loses his train of thought. Alfred Jones, the prodigal son. So rich that his name may as well be the Jones in Dow Jones. He is devilishly handsome and he knows it, his all-American wholesome ruggedness ruined by his sharp, intense eyes and his arrogant smirks. Though he is only nineteen, he has a dark charisma that gives him power and command over everyone in the room.

Arthur Kirkland most of all.

As always a shiver runs down Arthur’s spine when those steel blue eyes pass over him. They lock on his for but a moment, before moving onto the other persons in the corporate board room where the heads of departments are gathered. It doesn’t take more than that to make Arthur’s body feel as though it’s on fire. He shifts restlessly in his chair, hoping no one else notices his discomfort.

Only then does Arthur realize what Alfred is wearing. The long dark and fluffy coat, tall boots and that rather silly star on his cheek. His J-Pop Idol outfit. He rarely sees it in person. Alfred must have just done an appearance right here in Seattle. Yet even as ridiculous it may have looked on anyone else, somehow it suits Alfred and makes him even more the dark knight Arthur knows him to be. Especially when those blue eyes are only accentuated by that dark and smoky eyeshadow, the raven feathers framing his handsome face almost regally.

“Sorry all, I didn’t have time to change,” Alfred says to the room, striding over to his usual seat. With a nod his father resumes speaking, finally bringing Arthur’s mind back to the present. All it took was for Alfred to walk in to derail him. Even now he can only pay half-attention to their discussion on challenging the Magical Strike movement, his body keenly aware of Alfred so nearby. So close he can almost smell the sandalwood soap that is now so intimate in his memory... and so ingrained in his desire.

It seems like an age before the meeting finally concludes. Arthur quickly escapes before anyone can notice how unbelievably aroused he is, keeping his binder as indiscreetly as he can over his groin. He is so grateful that Basch takes meticulous minutes, as his mind had been filled with nothing but Alfred Jones. He punches the down button rapidly for the elevator, only releasing a long breath of relief as he gets into it by himself. He has the view of the dark skyline of Seattle all to himself, the city spread out below him like a twinkling starscape.

Then he hears a small thump behind him and turns to find Alfred behind him as the doors open to his hand. Alfred Jones smirks and steps into the glass elevator. All the air seems to suck out of it as the door closes behind them. Arthur can scarcely breathe, the air between them electric. He can feel the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end as the younger man takes a step closer to him. Alfred’s warm breath puffs against his neck, making a strange rippling wave of heat go right through him.

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” Alfred speaks, his voice as hard as steel. Immediately, Arthur starts and quickly brings his glasses out of his jacket pocket, putting them on. They aren’t any use to him, his eyesight perfect. That doesn’t matter. Whatever Alfred says goes. It’s in the contract after all.

“I-I’m sorry. They were distracting,” Arthur stammers, knowing it was already too late. He can see it in Alfred’s predatory eyes. “I’m not used to them yet.” Not to mention, he kept getting strange looks from his coworkers who weren’t used to seeing him wearing spectacles. He can’t tell them anything. None of them can ever know. He and Alfred have an agreement...

“You disobeyed me,” Alfred whispers, pressing Arthur up against the glass wall of the elevator. Just a layer of glass keeping Arthur from plummeting hundreds of feet to the world below. He already feels as though he’s falling into infinity. His hands grip his binder tightly, trembling in anticipation. 

Alfred is so close that his whole body is radiating with heat. His eyes smoulder with domineering intensity. His slender fingers grasp Arthur’s chin, tilting the Marketing Director’s face upwards. Alfred suddenly smashes a hard kiss against Arthur’s lips, harsh and demanding. His teeth bite down hard on Arthur’s lower lip, making him cry out in both pain and pleasure. His strong hands wrap around Arthur’s waist hard enough to bruise, pressing him so hard he can hardly breathe. Though his eyes rivet him to the glass as surely as his grip. “You need to be punished...” Alfred growls, cupping the back of Arthur’s head as his body bowed towards the younger man.

The elevator dings and Arthur is suddenly released. He collapses to the floor in a rumpled heap, his knees too jelly-legged to keep him up. His papers scatter across the tiled marble floor of the elevator. The floor in front of them is dark, all of Arthur’s subordinates having already headed home. He would have been grateful if he isn’t so overwhelmed.

Alfred makes a small tsking sound, holding the door open with his hand. There’s no point in both of them going up together. They’ll likely get caught by no less than Alfred’s father. And they can’t have that, now can they? “Your punishment is going to be delayed then,” Alfred says in haughty aloofness. “I expect you in the playroom in an hour.” The ‘or else’ is implicit.

Nodding mutely, Arthur gathers up the papers from the floor from the ground messily back into his binder. Then he leaves the elevator as stealthily as he can. There might not be anyone around, but it had become second nature to sneak around the building. His relationship with Alfred is the second best kept secret in the company. The first best kept secret is the nature of Alfred’s playroom and his very particular tastes.

Hint: There are no Xboxes in the playroom.

Hearing the elevator doors begin to slide closed, Arthur turns around to see Alfred’s dark silhouette against the Seattle skyline. The last thing he sees in his wicked smirk, those sharp steely blue eyes. Alfred’s lips murmur softly like a promise, “One hour, Arthur.”

The door closes and Arthur collapses against a cool marble pillar. His heart hammers in his chest with both fear and desire. He knows that Alfred will hurt him. He knows that Alfred will make him beg. 

And Arthur knows that he will love every minute of it.


	2. It’s always good to start from the beginning, isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, alright, I'm having a hard time giving up this AU too. XD Though, just don't expect it to be in a traditional story format (or regular updates). The timeline will probably just jump all over the place depending on how my stream of consciousness sees fit.

Arthur checks his watch, growing annoyed that his lunch appointment is nearly half an hour late.  He casts a disparaging gaze over the lunchroom of Le Gavroche, one of the most posh restaurants in all of London.  Of course, it was French...  The restaurant had not exactly been Arthur’s idea, francophobe to a fault.  However, it is the prerogative of his appointment to pick whichever restaurant in which he wants to dine.  

It is also his prerogative to be late...

Arthur knows he simply has to take it and that he’ll plaster a smart smile on his face when his appointment arrives.  After all, it’s not everyday that he has an interview with the CEO of the powerhouse Jones International Holdings Incorporated.  It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, working as Marketing Director in one of the most influential companies on the face of the earth.  The quadrupled salary isn’t exactly half-bad either.

Now, however, after being head-hunted and interviewed three times over, he’s ready for this to finally be over.  All he needs is the seal of approval from the man himself.

Still, a phone call from his personal aide would not exactly be remiss...

“Mr. Kirkland?” an obscenely young voice calls from behind him.

Arthur spins around in his chair and is immediately confronted with what seems like a wall of black.  His green eyes trail up, meeting a youthful face and two sharp blue eyes.  They catch Arthur like a fish on a hook, riveting him dumbly to his seat.  Despite the fact that the young man can hardly be older than twenty-five, there’s something ageless and quite frankly exquisitely _dangerous_ in those eyes.

The young man smirks at him.  The expression is... delicious.  A faint tremble runs over the Brit’s shoulders.  Arthur has no idea what has come over him, his mouth goes dry at the mere sight of this youth.  No one else has ever had such a powerful and immediate effect on him.  And a mere boy no less!  His preference is men.  Strong, older, powerful men.  Not this... absolutely _delectable_ specimen...

And he is delectable.  Dressed in a sharp black suit, black silk shirt, a purple tie and shoes so expensive that they probably cost more than Arthur’s entire wardrobe, the young man oozes taste.  More than that, he has a set of powerful, broad shoulders only accentuated by his tailored suit.  His face is cut handsomely, like an all-American boy-next-door film star.  Yet the wholesome effect is completely ruined by the ageless darkness in those eyes and the confident grace in which he carries himself.  Even the wild fuschia streak in his otherwise blond hair seems to give away a streak of delinquency.  He is no boy, but a panther prowling its territory.

Suddenly, Arthur finds a hand in front of his face.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kirkland,” the young man says.  Arthur hastily stands and takes the hand in his.  The boy’s grip is strong, firm.  Almost to excess.  Almost painful.  But not quite.  The control that the young man has over his own strength is intoxicating.  Something like an electric current passes through their skin, creating a heavy, palpable tension in the air.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Arthur says, when he finally finds his voice to speak.  “And you might be...?”  Certainly not his lunch appointment.  He is far, _far_ too young.

“Alfred Jones,” the young man replies, then gestures to their seats.  “Now, sit down,” he commands.  Not even a please or thank you.  Not even an excuse for being late.  Though to be fair, this man is not at all what Arthur expected.

“Alfred...” Arthur starts, taking his own seat again immediately.  “I apologize, I thought that I was supposed to meet...”

“That would be my father,” Jones says with a sardonic smile.  Even sitting, he looks like liquid grace, ready to pounce at any second, keeping Arthur on edge.  “He apologizes that he cannot come here to meet you in person.  Unfortunately, something’s come up in Paris, so he sent me in his stead.”

Alfred Jones...  Arthur frowns, before he remembers where he heard the name before.  Alfred Jones, the infamous prodigal prodigy.  He received his Masters in Engineering when he was but sixteen years old, then ran off to Japan to become a famous J-Pop Idol.  According to Arthur’s research, the young man had only very recently returned to the fold to be groomed as his father’s successor.  It is no wonder he didn’t recognize him since all he saw were pictures of Alfred in his full J-Pop garb.  Well, it certainly explains the dyed hair and the overwhelming dark charisma.

However, something else comes to the forefront of Arthur’s memory.  “You’re only nineteen!” he cries, aghast.  This predator in front of him is even younger than he is!  Arthur would never have guessed that from the way Jones carries himself.

Jones raises an eyebrow.  “I see you’ve done your homework,” he says with a laugh, making Arthur flush at his own impertinence.  If this is going to be his interview, he’s sure that he’s already mucked it all up.  Perhaps there’s a way to salvage it yet.  He just needs to keep himself from making any more stupid mistakes.

“My apologies,” Arthur says quickly.  “You carry yourself very well.  You seem far more mature than anyone else your age.”

“That so?” Jones asks lightly, leaning forward in his seat, his sharp eyes sparkling with mirth.  “If your bio is correct, you’re only twenty-three yourself.  That’s not exactly that far off of nineteen, now is it, _old man_?”

God, he is an _arrogant_ little...

“Do you think I’m too young for the position?” Arthur asks, pulling on an smile edged with bitterness.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jones replies airily.  His smile sharpens into a smirk and he adds in a low, husky voice, “I’m imagining you in all _kinds_ of positions...”

Arthur’s false smile immediately drops, his entire face flushing at the blatant sexuality and innuendo.  Before he can even put the pieces of his mind back together to formulate any sort of coherent response, Jones has waved over their waiter.  Then he rattles off in perfect French, “Je voudrais le 2008 Quilceda Creek Cabernet Sauvignon, le Filet de Boeuf Grillé et Purée d'Epinards Poêlée de Champignons.  Et mon compagnon voudrait le Boudin Noir, Oeuf Frit, Salade d'Asperges Crues et Chutney de Tomate Epicée.”

“Très bien, monsieur,” the waiter replies, “et l’eau?”

“L'eau gazeuse,” Jones replies and waves the man off.

Arthur immediately decides that Jones sounds exponentially more arrogant in French.  “What exactly- _Did you just order for me_?” he demands indignantly his voice rising an entire octave, forgetting once again that this is an interview.

“Black pudding,” Jones explains, “one of your favorites.”

Arthur doesn’t even want to think about how Jones could have possibly come across _that_ information.  Somehow Jones’ arrival here instead of his father seems more than mere coincidence.  In fact, he has the distinct feeling he’s being courted.  “I see,” he says in a clipped tone.  “Are you usually in the business of controlling everyone around you?”

“Of course,” Jones replies, “in fact I take great pleasure in it.”  The younger man smirks at him again and Arthur feels another sensuous shiver run down his spine.  It’s as if he _knows_ what sort of effect he is having on Arthur.  Especially if that positions comment is anything to go by.  Jones leans forward, steepling his fingers together in front of him.  “In fact, I do believe that your fate currently rests in the palm of my hand.  To do with as I please.”

Somehow, the Brit has the distinct feeling that Jones is talking about much more than just the Directorship position.  “I was under the impression that this interview was a formality,” Arthur says, growing far more alarmed.  “In fact the company is already processing my work visa.  I’m supposed to move to Seattle in a month!”

“Oh, I can stop all of that right now with just a phone call,” Jones replies, looking like the devil himself as he smirks at Arthur with those smouldering blue eyes.  “Or I could not,” he adds, his voice low and seductive, “so long as you please me.  Do you think you can do that, Arthur?  Can you please me?”

Despite the fact that Jones is essentially threatening his livelihood, there’s something powerfully erotic about the way he says it.  A flash of panic goes through him, wondering if somehow Jones found out about his deviant tendencies behind closed doors.  Somehow, he can sense that he does.  There is something clearly here between them, a resonation, a magnetism that comes only from two opposites attracting.

Swallowing heavily, Arthur leans in and asks softly, “Exactly how do you want me to please you?”  They pause as the waiter comes back, pouring out water and wine for them both.  As soon as he leaves, Jones reaches out across the table grasping Arthur’s hand tightly.  His thumbnail dug into the Brit’s palm, pressing harder and harder until he was sure that Jones would break skin.  Arthur gasps, shuddering violently at the sensation.  He squirms, flushing with pleasure even at the little sharp prickle of pain.  It normally takes more than this, but Jones has such an _effect_ on him.  

"I _knew_ it," Jones says, soft and victorious.  His eyes gleam with possession, his fingers slipping up around Arthur's wrist.  His grip is painfully tight.  "I want to own you, Arthur.  In no uncertain terms.  It's why you're even being considered at all for this position."

"W-what?" Arthur hisses, trying to tug his hand back.  "How are- why would you even-"  None of this makes any sense.  He's never even _met_ Jones before.

"I've seen you before, here, when you were at Uni," Jones whispers, “I was here on study abroad.  You were... _something else_.  Whatever happened to your green hair, Arthur?  All your piercings?”

Arthur cannot recollect this at _all_ , though he certainly remembers his punk phase.  Surely he would remember some lanky American teen pining after him.  Perhaps he doesn’t.  Maybe that’s why Jones is so obsessed.  He cannot imagine this man being denied _anything_.  “So, I’m not being considered for merit?” he demands instead of answering Jones’ questions.

“Not really,” Jones replies nonchalantly.  He gently pats Arthur’s arm.  “Oh, but it’s not really your fault.  Like you said, you’re young.  You only have your 1st Class Honours and your pedigree to fall back on.  There’s no real reason why you should be courted by my company so early without making a name for yourself at... where are you at now?”

“Burberry,” Arthur replies, feeling utterly humiliated.  All the previous pride he had felt at being so sought after deflated along with his self-esteem.  Oh how he had bragged to his coworkers and friends about this.  Now it turns out it was simply because he caught some rich boy’s eye in Uni?

“Well, do you think you can still handle it?” Jones asks, all smug condescension.

Arthur bristles.  “Of course, I can,” he snaps, his temper flaring.  “I may not have experience, but I have instinct.  You’d be a fool not to take me.”

A sharp smile pulls across Jones’ lips.  “I was hoping you’d say that,” he admits.  His fingertips still coast over Arthur’s knuckles in a most distracting and tantalizing way.  “However, if you want the chance, you’ll have to pay the price.”  Their food arrives, providing Arthur a brief respite to process all this information.  The food in front of them looks delicious, but Arthur cannot bring himself to take a bite.

“What price?” he demands when they have privacy again.

“A contract,” Jones replies, his sharp eyes studying Arthur over the rim of his glasses.  “One that explicitly makes you mine to do with as I will.  You will obey me in all things, serve me, bend to my will.  Be punished if you ever see fit to disobey me...”

Oh lord, that sounds so hot.

“What if we’re incompatible?” Arthur demands sharply, forcing himself to think sensibly no matter how erratic his heart is pumping.  “This is my future we’re talking about.  I’m not going to move to the United States only to be stranded there if you decide I’m not worth your time.”

“Your performance at my father's company will be mutually exclusive of your performance in bed,” Jones assures him.  Arthur flushes at how blunt the younger man is, though he is grateful for his frankness nonetheless.  “Should you fail at one, it will not have any impact on the other.  However, you should know that the only reason why you’re being offered this at all is because I want you.  And I want you closeby and convenient to me.  If you don’t agree to my contract, then you won’t be going to Seattle.”

So, he is essentially reduced to prostitution.  Arthur takes a long pull of wine because he desperately needs it.  He feels humiliated, demeaned, but also incredibly, irrationally flattered.  He’s not sure yet what will win out.  “I’ll need to read this thing before I sign it,” he finally manages.

“I’d be worried if our new Marketing Director didn’t feel the need,” Jones teases, his dark gaze sparkling with mirth.  As if it’s a sure thing that Arthur will agree.  “A copy has already been sent to your apartment- ah, I mean flat.  You should see it when you come home tonight."

"Negotiable?" Arthur croaks.

"Of course," Alfred replies haughtily, "though you should know I drive a hard bargain."

"I should expect nothing less," Arthur replies, poking at his black pudding.  He takes a small bite of it, though he is still far from hungry.  Instead, he is hungry for something else _entirely_.  His eyes stray to Jones' hands, remembering how strong they are, how utterly ruthless.  "You know," he quips lightly, "your suit would be far more persuasive if you gave me some inkling of what I'm in for."

A deliciously wicked and dangerous smirk spreads over Jones' lips.  It makes Arthur's entire body heat with desire upon sight.  He very much doubts he'll go back to work today.  Even if he does, he'll be a useless gibbering mess.  "Eat up," Jones commands, nodding to the food, "you'll need the energy for what I plan to do with you."

He's about to go to bed with the devil.  Arthur finds himself wolfing down his food in sheer eagerness.


	3. Mmmmm~ Double Megane...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I'm not sure what people's definition is of light BDSM, so I'm adding an additional warning here. There's bondage, master-slave, and sado-masochistic caning in this one. If you don't like that, please don't read it. That's more for your benefit than mine. ALSO, side note. Do NOT ever try to cane someone if you've never been taught how. Seriously, don't do it.

When Alfred presents Arthur with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, Arthur is decidedly confused.  He stares at them in his hands, wondering what on earth he’s supposed to do with them.  “I don’t need glasses,” he informs Alfred promptly.  He knows he’s on the precipice of disobedience, but he’s willing to push the edge just a bit for this matter.

Though really, what is one more accessory?  Alfred controls everything he wears and his closets are stocked full of the finest clothes, shoes and accessories that Arthur has ever seen much less owned.  All courtesy of Alfred’s very expensive, private tailors and the younger man’s immense wallet.  With the side-benefit of not spending a single penny of his own rather hefty salary.  (Arthur often daydreams about retiring early to his own private island somewhere in the Caribbean.)

Still, something about this is just... _galling_.

“I don’t care.  You’re going to wear them,” Alfred growls, his eyes narrowing dangerously.  The younger man is lounging naked on top of Arthur’s bed in his chic brick walled condo, looking all the world like he owns the place.  Considering he is also paying for this, that’s fair enough.  The company had offered Arthur free housing, but Alfred wanted him in the same building as him, which is too steep for Arthur’s budget.  It’s only fair that Alfred pays the price for convenience.  Spoiled brat.

Knowing Alfred is likely going to go for the flogger any second, Arthur still presses on regardless.  “But you like my eyes.  Why in the blazes would you want me to cover them up?” he demands, clearly offended.  Yes, that’s it.  He’s horribly offended.  This is an affront to his... well, not dignity.   _Something_.

Seeing this, a sly smirk works it’s way to Alfred’s lips as the dangerous air seems to dissipate.  For now.  “You’re right,” he admits, waving Arthur to come over to him to the bed.  Arthur comes, if a little unwillingly, as though he’s dragged by a leash.  Alfred’s hands wrap tightly about Arthur’s lithe body, his grip harsh and possessive.  Arthur very much enjoys the feeling.  “You have the most beautiful eyes in the entire world,” Alfred purrs, his words cascading warmly down Arthur’s skin like the seductive tracing of a feather.  “They belong to me and only me.  No one else is allowed to see them like I do.”

 _Ah_ ~  So that’s it.

“Oh, _I see..._ ” Arthur replies sagely, his lips betraying his delight.  “Just so that we’re clear, I do not wear the spectacles in private then?”  The younger man shakes his head.  “Just in the company of others?”  A nod and the hands around him tighten, rough and jealous.  Arthur not-so-secretly relishes it.  He lets out a laugh, his hand sifting through his the younger man’s fringe and the wild streak of purple.  “My poor, dear, _jealous_ master.  I suppose a collar would be too obvious, wouldn’t it?” he teases, pressing all of Alfred’s buttons.  He knows them so intimately after all.  “Are you imagining it, Alfred?” he asks softly, running his hands down the younger man’s broad shoulders and down his hard back.  “A tight black leather collar with a bright silver buckle.  Like what I used to wear in Uni...  I would feel it against my flesh all day, only just restricting my breath, a constant reminder of who I belong to...”

The words work like magic on the younger man, his blue eyes glazing over with liquid desire.  His breath grows shallow and his flesh heats underneath Arthur’s hands.   _Arthur_ has done that to him, watching in pleasure as Alfred fights for bodily control over himself.  It’s nice to not be the first one coming completely undone for a change.  Not that he doesn’t enjoy it, mind you.

“You know, you needn’t feel so jealous if you let everyone know I belong to you,” Arthur reminds his lover lightly.

Just like that, he knows he’s gone a step too far.  The lovely haze surrounding Alfred suddenly shuts down, replaced instead by a harsh, cold fury.  “I _warned_ you not to talk about that,” he hisses, his blue eyes blazing in anger.  His ire is so lethal and fierce that Arthur is immediately thrown from his teasing mood back into the guise of submissive pet.

“I-I’m sorry,” he apologizes, his eyes wide in an expression of sincere contrition.  “Master, I’m so sorry.  I know I shouldn’t have mentioned it.  I know it upsets you.”  How stupid he’d been!  He just had to push too far, didn’t he?  He’d only meant to get Alfred a _little_ riled.  But no~ he has to go and bring up the one thing that Alfred has absolutely no control over.  The hold that Alfred’s father has over him.  Not for the first time, he silently wishes death upon the CEO.

However, it’s already too late.  His amorous lover is gone, replaced by his brutal taskmaster instead.  And _not_ the playful, teasing one.  This is the one hiding there underneath the surface, the one that all of Alfred’s other faces merely hint at.  A thrill of fear shoots through Arthur, especially when Alfred grabs him and throws him on top of the bed without warning.  

“On your stomach, _now_ ,” Alfred snaps.  Arthur obeys, letting out a muffled yelp when a strong hand shoves his face roughly into his pillow.  He whimpers when Alfred finds his ties and binds him to the posts of his bed, all four limbs.  For a brief flash of panic, he has the absolutely terrifying thought that Alfred does not have any control over himself and his anger.  No, he _cannot_ think like that.  This entire relationship is based off of trust.

Red.  His safeword is _Red_.

Alfred gets off of him, sliding out of bed and heading to a corner of the room where the box of instruments is kept.  A sharp chill goes through Arthur when he sees the tool that Alfred has chosen.  The yew cane.

Oh lord, this is going to hurt.

Steeling himself, he wraps his hands around the silk ties around his wrists.  He shivers when the tip of the cane caresses his back, the misguiding anticipation before the strike.  It slides over his flesh like a serpent, teasing him as it slid between his cheeks.  Then it disappears, only to come harshly down onto Arthur’s naked back.  Not as hard as it could have been, which would have sent Arthur to the hospital.  Yet it still _bites_.

Arthur gasps harshly, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes as the initial sting turns into a fiery sear of pain.  The tip of the cane is back again, tracing gently over his muscles and along the delicate line of fire that seems to split his back.  The touch seems to take measure, lustfully soaking in his pain and his pleasure like ambrosia.  He hisses sharply, squeezing his eyes shut as he feels his body responding with painful arousal to the light strokes and brushes caressing his flesh.  He’s already overwhelmed, writhing in want even as he dreads the next strike.  How pathetic, one hit and he’s already nearly at his limit.  That’s when the next hit comes.  In a different places this time, spreading out the pain.  A sharp cry issues from Arthur’s mouth, piercing the room.  

"Shhhh~" his master hushes, the tip of the cane once more on him, sliding over the small of his back.  "Be good, Arthur.  Unless you want me to hit you again."

"No.  No, _please_ ," Arthur begs, tears free flowing from his eyes.  He lets out a scream, when there's another sharp strike.  Then the snake is back, threading over his bright red skin.  He's almost delirious in pain, his thoughts growing dizzy.  

“ _Red!_ ” Arthur cries out, tears streaming from his eyes as the pain threatens to overwhelm him.  He cringes when he feels the rush of wind just as the cane is about to hit him again.  Yet it stops short, just inches above his back.  Arthur gasps for breath, sobbing with relief as the onslaught ceases.

He hears the cane clack onto the wooden floor and feels Alfred’s hands come up to his bound wrists and ankles.  They are red from their wrappings, though in a much better state than his beleaguered back.  There is no doubt that his flesh will bruise and blister.  “Arthur...” he hears Alfred call his name softly and winces when he feels the other man’s fingers come up to his reddened skin.  “Just a minute, I’ll be back.”

The younger man departs from the room and then returns with a small jar of salve.  The bed dips as Alfred comes up into bed beside him and applies the bitter smelling ointment to his painful skin.  It has an immediate cooling effect, doing much to numb the sting.  Alfred is unbearably gentle as he massages the balm in, bringing his legs underneath Arthur’s head so that he can rest upon him.  “You haven’t needed the safeword in ages,” Alfred notes softly.  It’s as close to an apology as Arthur knows he’s going to get.  Not that he particularly needs one.

“You stopped,” Arthur responds hoarsely in turn, shaking his head.  He relaxes fully against the younger man, confident that Alfred will never do anything to hurt him.  At least not without his permission.  “You gave me a fright.  I didn’t think you would.”

“Of course, I would,” Alfred huffs in reply, clearly offended.  His hand briefly fists in Arthur’s hair, tugging his face up to meet his.  “But don’t bring up outing us again.  I mean it.”  As though he hadn’t just demonstrated that.

“Yes, sir,” he replies quietly.  The fist releases, allowing Arthur to comfortably rest once again atop his thigh.  Then it resumes gently petting him.  It feels absolutely lovely.  Not to mention, now that the pain has settled into a delicious, stinging throb, he feels outright restless.  Arthur turns his green eyes up to his lover.  “After all that, you aren’t going to even have me?”

Alfred raises an eyebrow and smirks.  “I didn’t think you’d be up for it.”

Arthur glares at him, before gingerly pushing himself up to a kneeling position on the bed.  Alfred’s smirk only grows as he eyes Arthur’s erection.  “I suppose I can forgive you for not realizing it while I was on my belly,” the Brit says, quite tetchy.  “But right now, I want you to take me.  On my back.”

“You are _such_ a glutton,” Alfred teases, his eyes brimming with dark delight and even a little awe.  He roughly pushes the older man onto his back, making Arthur hiss at the deliciously painful sensation.  "After this you'll be feeling me for weeks.

When Arthur finally does go to work two days later, his glasses are a securely in place, a brand new addition to his work attire.


	4. Having Him By the Balls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, SO, specific warnings on this one: Bondage, Master/slave, genitalia shaving. Yep, that's what I said. And it's graphic. But not bloody, promise.

Arthur has _never_ seen Alfred look so unsure of himself before.  To be perfectly honest, it’s a little bit of a turn off, but he has to remind himself that he has to be sweet and understanding.  After all, Alfred is only nineteen years old.  An easy thing to forget when his domineering personality and charisma are powerfully overwhelming.

So he kneels in the middle of the red leather mattress in the middle of Alfred’s playroom, trying to maintain a demure facade.  Even if it’s bloody difficult to set the mood.  He is not used to seeing hesitation in Alfred’s words or actions, the frequent brushing back of his purple streak lock a dead giveaway of his nerves.  He’s working up the nerve to say something, instead of simply commanding his will to be so.

_Patience_...

“Master?” Arthur says, his voice edged with a touch of irritation.  Something that he should get a sharp smack for.  However, Alfred seems distracted, idly playing with a crop.  Finally, Arthur gives up, “ _Alfred_.  If you’re not in the mood, I’ll just go.”  He moves to get off the bed and collect his things, thinking of the nice cup of tea waiting for him at home.

However, a sharp clap of the crop against the leather bed stops him, sending a spark of excitement running up Arthur’s spine.  Alfred leans in, his eyes burning.  “I want to do something to you.”

“...Okay,” Arthur replies cautiously, wondering and dreading why Alfred isn’t just _doing_ it.  This _cannot_ be good.

“But... it’s kind of a breach of contract,” Alfred admits in a rush of breath.  Arthur’s eyes immediately narrow.  Aha.  Now he understands.  Alfred likely remembers what Arthur did the _last_ time Alfred broke their agreement.

“ _What?_ ” Arthur demands flatly.

“I want to shave your genitals,” Alfred replies in a rush of breath.  A wave of alarm rises up in the Brit, standing every hair on end.

“I _told_ you, no blades of any kind,” he hisses, his green eyes going sharp.

“But I don’t want to cut you.  I want to shave you,” the younger man insists, his hand roughly coming around Arthur’s shaft and giving it a painful squeeze.  Arthur gasps, his sensitive cock growing excited.  Alfred’s lips are on him, sharply biting a trail along the Brit’s shoulder.  “Arthur~ Let me do it~” he presses again, his voice growing darker and more commanding in that utterly delectable way.  “You’re mine, Arthur... When have I ever hurt what was mine...?”

Arthur lets out a harsh bark of laughter.

The younger man slaps him on the bum for his insolence, which sends another delicious thrill through him.  “Arthur... Let me do this.  Please...” Alfred murmurs, his arm tight around his lover’s back, his fingers digging possessively into Arthur’s bum.

“What is this _actually_ about?” Arthur asks, unable to keep from frowning.  He’s never seen Alfred behave this way before.  It’s absolutely unnerving.  After all, they have a very solid business-like contract between them.

The younger man is silent for a long moment.  “Do you trust me?” he finally asks.

“Yes, of course,” Arthur replies.  That response is automatic through training.  So he adds much more softly and sincerely, “Would I let you possess me otherwise?”

“So...?” Alfred presses.

Heaving a great sigh, Arthur finally relents.  “Alright, _alright_ ,” he says, sounding as though he’d very much rather suck a toad.  “But if you cut me, I swear it’s _your_ balls on the spit.”

Without warning, Alfred shifts, his steel blue eyes gleaming with dark intensity.  His hand reaches up, fisting the back of Arthur’s hair tight enough to make him hiss.  “Is that any way to talk to your master?” he demands, his voice as cool as ice cubes sliding down Arthur’s heated skin.

Ah~  Well, he’s certainly back in top form.  Arthur’s _almost_ excited about this.  Almost.  Nonetheless, he responds easily to the seductive allure of the darkness at his master’s core, melting into it like butter against its sensuous heat.  “No, master,” he whispers, “I’m sorry, master.”  The hand tightens and Arthur gasps as his scalp crawls with pain.

“You’ve been getting quite mouthy lately,” Alfred speaks softly, his eyes glittering like white hot irons with just as much threat of pain and danger.  “I think you need a reminder of who you belong to... Hmmm...” he hums softly, his hand lowers, cupping Arthur’s balls in his hand and massaging them.  Low thrums of pleasure run through the Brit as he is so gently tormented, biting his lower lip as he stifles a moan.  Suddenly, Alfred plucks a hair, making Arthur yelp loudly.  Christ, even now he’s still incredibly sensitive there.

Alfred smirks at him, his gaze hungrily eyeing Arthur like a delicious meal, consuming him with the intoxicating aura of strength and power.  It makes Arthur shudder in dread and delight, both warring within him as he wriggles in the younger man’s steel grip.  “I think... I want you completely bare.  Like a baby.  Maybe that will remind you to mind your betters...”

“Sir, no, please...” Arthur begs, on the vain hope that Alfred will somehow change his mind.  However, the younger man is going for the silk cuffs from his rack of bondage instruments on one of the walls.  He returns and roughly ties Arthur’s hands behind his back, then shoves him down on top of the bed.  The effect is immediately felt on his shoulders as his arms are pinned underneath him, aching from the uncomfortable position.

It’s one of his favourites.  Clearly, Alfred is trying to suck up to him.

“Don’t move,” his master orders and crouches to procure the little box with a double edged razor and shaving cream he had apparently been keeping under the bed.  Arthur is tempted to glare at him.  Cocky, _arrogant_ little...

Alfred gets up onto the bed, spreading the older man’s legs apart to have them wrap loosely around his own hips.  His hand reaches out and fondles Arthur’s balls in his hand, inspecting the work to be done.

Arthur squirms, testing the bonds behind his back.  A hand comes down to smack his thigh, merely as a reminder.  “Don’t move,” Alfred orders sharply, touching the dull edge of the razor to Arthur’s inner thigh.  Arthur shivers at the feeling of the razor sliding against his skin like a threat.  “I will cut you if you keep squirming.  Do you want me to cut you?”

“ _No_ ,” Arthur hisses and he means it.  He’s already nervous enough about this as it is.  Why is Alfred making it worse?

Because that’s what he enjoys of course...

So the older man stays completely and perfectly still, only allowing a faint shiver as Alfred coats him with a cold foam.  This is not unlike their other sessions, he tries to tell himself, where Alfred likes to make him writhe and moan as he teased him with ice or hot wax.  

However, he only grows more anxious as he feels Alfred fondle his highly sensitive skin beneath his shaft to stretch it out.  Then he feels the razor, a gentle scrape against his skin.  He is not at all prepared for the sensation, and it is only his strict discipline that keeps him from bucking up against Alfred’s hands.  He gasps instead, trembling violently as the feeling shoots through his wired nerves.

“Good boy...” Alfred praises, his voice a low and sultry purr that is like violet honey.  “Now, just stay still...” he commands, his fingers massaging and stretching Arthur’s scrotum underneath his fingers for a flat surface.  Then the razor scrapes against his delicate skin again, moving with inexorable care.  It is slow.  It is intimate.  It is _maddening_.  

Arthur pants, going lightheaded as all of his focus goes straight to his groin.  He is already so hard that it is painful.  He has no grasp on time, seconds passing like hours, each scrape sending another confusing shockwave of need through him.  Tears prick the corners of his eyes as he finally feels the blade come away.  “D-done?  Are we done yet?” he demands, not sure how much more of this he can take.

He can _hear_ the wicked smirk in Alfred’s voice.  “I’ve only done one, Arthur.  I’m not anywhere close to done yet.”  The words run down to Arthur’s heart like cold dread and he wants to _scream_ in frustration.  Alfred does not even wait for the older man to recover, before he starts the slow and torturous process again.  Somehow, it is ten times worse, only because Arthur knows that Alfred is going to drag this out for as long as he possibly can.

“Master, Master, _please_ ,” he begs, unused to being denied for this long.  His entire body is boiling with heat, so oversensitized that he can even feel each individual ripple in the red leather mattress below him.  “ _Please stop.  I need you.  I need you so badly,_ please!” he babbles, reduced to a gibbering mess of want and nerves.  He wants to writhe so badly, but Alfred’s firm hand on his thigh is keeping him still.

“So _eager_ ,” Alfred smirks, his blue eyes drinking in Arthur’s agony and his impatience.  “Nearly done.  Just stay still.  You’re doing so well, pet.  You’re almost ready for your reward...”  Arthur nods quickly, absorbing his master’s assurances as best he can, trying to keep himself still as if that would make this go faster.

Finally, finally, after what seems like a millennia, the razor pulls away and Alfred towels down the rest of the cream from Arthur’s groin.  He’s gotten _everything_ , not a single hair anywhere near his rock hard shaft and his flesh tingles to the point of _stinging_.  “Master, Master, will you...?” Arthur begs, physically and emotionally simultaneously primed and exhausted.

“Just a minute,” Alfred replies lightly, going to a little cabinet.  “You need some baby oil.  You’ll thank me for this later.”  As if he’s not delighting in making Arthur wait, just a _little_ bit longer.  Arthur would have hurled something at him, if his hands were not tied behind his back and pinned underneath him.  When he returns, he palms a handful of oil and then gently begins to massage it into Arthur’s stinging flesh.

With the threat of the blade away, Arthur writhes underneath his hands, a soft keen of need escaping his throat.  His hips grind upwards, trying to get the younger man to finally attend to him.  When Alfred’s strong, oil slicked hand finally comes to his length, he gasps loudly as a shock of desire goes straight through him.

“You’ve been _such_ a good pet...” Alfred purrs, flicking the tip of Arthur’s shaft with his thumb, making the older man whimper.  “You definitely deserve your reward...”  His hand works Arthur up and down, his grip possessive and firm.  It’s strong and powerful and _perfect_ , better in every way than any other who’s ever had Arthur before.  Arthur quakes underneath him, all his thoughts falling to pieces in favor of that mounting wave building up in him with exponentially heightening acceleration.  His entire body seizes up, climaxing into Alfred’s skilled hand.

Then Arthur falls back into bed, unashamed of how quickly he came when his very soul is tired from this ordeal.  His body is like jelly, limply moved about as Alfred finally releases his hands from behind his back.  The taller man climbs up fully into bed, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s body with a jealously hoarding grip, as though he does not even want the air to touch Arthur’s skin.  Arthur is content to simply pool against him, too tired to do much else but think of breathing.  He does not even react when Alfred reaches down and cups his groin.

“Hmn, you’re so smooth there now...” he purrs, as his teeth roughly nibble along Arthur’s neck and shoulders.

“Feels strange...” Arthur admits tiredly.

“Well, it’s going to sting for a while,” Alfred says, fondling Arthur’s overly sensitized balls.  Arthur can feel the ghost of arousal coming back to him at his touch.  “Then it’s going to itch like hell when the hair starts growing back.”  The younger man grins devilishly against Arthur’s shoulder as the Brit tenses up at that.  “Oh don’t worry,” Alfred says coolly, “it’ll stop the more often we do this...”

Arthur stares up at the carabiner ceiling, wondering with dread what the fuck he just got himself into.

 


	5. Leather and Lace (and Steel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mistress Day! No, seriously, it's a thing. Go look it up. Hint: Not BDSM related, but it should be.
> 
> Okay, so warnings on this one: light suspension, anal ball, spanking.

Alfred Jones’ penthouse is absolutely absurd.  That is to say that Arthur _boils with envy_ as he steps into it for the first time.  He gapes openly at the wide spaces, the exposed brick walls, the beautiful arches between rooms, the beautifully weathered wood floors, the rooftop deck overlooking both downtown Seattle and Elliott Bay.  The furnishings themselves are a strange fusion of the old and new, using steel, weathered wood and leather to make pieces with new modern lines.  They look like they might be part of some restoration revival trend, though Arthur cannot pin down the exact time period.

However, what’s worse is that, _somehow_ , despite the fact that the penthouse is located in a historic building, Jones had somehow managed to get the entire floor to himself.  Then leveled it into a single unit making it almost palatial in scope.  Arthur cannot even imagine the logistical nightmare that must have been and how much persuasion it must have taken to convince the building managers and the city to make such drastic changes.  

Of course, Alfred Jones always gets what he wants.  He sighs heavily.  Some of the younger man’s luster is gone after they went through the tedious process of arguing back and forth on that blasted contract.  Still, at least it seems like both of them got out ahead.

Arthur runs his hand over the exposed brick walls, feeling their roughness.  He imagines what it might be like to be shoved up against it in the throes of lust and a delicious shiver runs down his spine.

He may just find out yet...

A hand comes to Arthur’s lower back and he jumps a little at the sudden break in his thoughts.  “Do you like it?” Jones asks softly in his ear, his voice smooth and cocky.  His breath sends a faint tremble down Arthur’s skin, rippling gently through him like a stone skipping across an undisturbed lake.

Alright, perhaps Jones hasn’t lost _all_ his luster.

Jones grasps Arthur’s wrist.  He smirks as his thumb presses into Arthur’s pulse and sees the desire there if not painted over Arthur’s stoic face.  “Come this way,” he commands and leads Arthur through the penthouse back towards the private quarters lay.  Arthur notices the open door all the way at the end of the hall, so different from the rest of the house.  The features inside are softer, a pale soft blue wall, a gray driftwood bed and white linens everything washed in pale warm light from the window.  He frowns at it, this strange, gentle picture framed by hard brick.  With a flash of insight, he knows that it must be Jones’ bedroom.

However, before they get to the room at the end of the hall, Jones makes a sudden left turn, pulling Arthur into a room completely inaccessible to natural light.  This is yet another exposed brick room with an enormous red leather bed in the center of it.  Wooden racks mount the wall like a Spartan war room.  Yet instead of weapons (of the conventional sort), they are lined with innumerable toys of every variety imaginable.  Arthur gapes at them, his awe mounting as he looks from one to another to another.  Absolutely none of these are _cheap_ , made from luxurious and hardy materials meant to endure a great amount of stress.  These must have cost a small _fortune_.  He very nearly drools, running his hands reverently through the toys and imagining all the possible and impossible scenarios in which they could be implemented.

“I thought you might like them,” Jones purrs, drawing Arthur’s attention back to him.  He leans casually against the frame of the door, looking all the world like a grim spectre in his pitch black attire and his pale face, guarding against escape.  Trapping him like a panther corners its prey.  Even as casual as his pose is, the air between them grows warm with the undercurrent of desire flowing downriver like a stream from one to the other.  Being the focus of that predatory intensity is... _quite_ addictive.

“Pick one,” he says, pushing himself away from the wall.  He treads slowly to Arthur, every single movement deliberate and graceful, controlled.

The sensation of being hunted fills Arthur with a wave of pleasure and no small tendril of fear.  He’s gotten a taste of what Jones is capable of.  But that was _before_ he signed the contract.  Now this will be a true test of what is in store for him.

His green eyes glance over the room, trying to find something that would catch his eye and wouldn’t allow for Jones to go too far with it.  His eyes are drawn over to an armoire and he gingerly opens it up.  The smell of well oiled leather hits him like a heady perfume and he lets out a faint groan at the intoxicating scent.  Then his eyes see _it_.

Two beautiful leather gloves, even longer than opera sleeves as they end over the shoulder and hooked to a leather buckled collar.  Along the gloves he sees various steel rings and detachable leather and steel straps perfect for keeping his arms immobilized behind his back.  Arthur is immediately mesmerized.

Jones comes up behind him, pressing Arthur into the armoire drawers at his waist.  “Do you like that?” he asks, more amused than kind.  His hand reaches over to Arthur’s abs, trailing sensuously and possessively over his skin as he pulls him up close to Jones’ larger body.

“Mmm, yes sir,” Arthur answers in a husky voice, his own fingers possessive over the leather restraints.

“Yes _Master_ ,” Jones hisses into his ear and sucks and bites his earlobe to get the message across.  Arthur is immediately thrown.   _Master?_  He’s never called anyone Master before.  His mind flips through their contract and he realizes he’s never put anything down regarding names.  Should he argue?  Yet the way that the word rolls off of Jones’ lips, the sheer command in which he uses it...  Arthur is fairly sure he will be severely punished much less get these restraints if he doesn’t use it.  He supposes he can try it, just for a while.

“Yes, M-Master,” he says, the word tumbling awkwardly from his tongue.  The immense pleasure suddenly radiating off of Jones is nearly palpable.  He smiles against Arthur’s neck, his touch sliding down to Arthur’s inner thigh.

“Good boy,” Jones purrs, delicately taking the gloves from Arthur’s hands.  The Brit gives them up with a faint whine.  “Now, now.  I’m going to have some custom-made just for you.  Would you like that pet?”

“C-custom-” Arthur starts in shock, before remembering that Jones is rich as sin.   _Of course_ he can afford to custom make  £500 restraints, though now he burns with curiosity about Jones’ supplier.  “Yes, Master.  Please.  I would like that.”

“Mmm, then I’m going to need to take some measurements,” Jones says, taking the restraints away.  “For that I need you to not move.  Now, strip.”  As Arthur obeys, Jones goes instead to a different toy rack and selects a large steel hook, with a large ball on one end and a loop on the other.  The Brit immediately recognizes it as an anal hook and feels a tremble of anticipation go through him.

Jones takes a rope hanging from the carabiner ceiling (how had Arthur not noticed _that_ before?) and attaches the hook to one end.  It hangs low for now and Jones waves Arthur to come.  “Now, pet, here.  This will keep you still.  Come over here and bend over.”

Arthur pads over, taking in the pure eroticism of this, the dark gleam in Jones’ eyes promising him great discomfort, and his body heats with a wave of arousal.  He bends over as Jones commands, spreading himself wide.  “Like this, Master?” he asks.  It’s getting easier and easier to say the name and Arthur briefly wonders if that is a good thing or not.

A hand traces down the length of Arthur’s spine, from the base all the way to his neck.  “Yes, like that,” Jones murmurs, his hand fisting in Arthur’s hair.  “Now stay still.”  That’s when Arthur feels the cold heavy ball intruding into him, teasing his entrance as a sharp shiver runs straight through his body.  He gasps when the ball comes fully inside him.  It doesn’t fill him up completely, but that’s really not the point.  “Now, stand,” Jones commands and Arthur does so, feeling the cool metal readjust and slip icily between his cheeks to be warmed against his rapidly heating flesh.  It occurs to Arthur that he is literally hooked to Jones’ ceiling, if loosely.

However, Jones quickly remedies that, his hands working on the rope to readjust it tighter and tighter.  Arthur gasps again as the hook is now firmly tugged up against him, the ball sliding deeper into his body.  “Comfortable?” Jones laughs, sliding a hand over Arthur’s pert bum and giving him a sharp slap.  Arthur jerks and the ball moves inside him, making itself very known with every motion.

“Nngh, no, Master.  Tighter, please,” Arthur hisses.  He’s _almost_ there, but not quite.

Jones raises an eyebrow.  “My, you _are_ a glutton,” he says, but he’s smirking, “as you wish, pet.”  He readjusts the rope again, now making the hook so uncomfortable that it’s almost to the breaking point of painful.  “Better?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur breathes, pain and pleasure intertwining as he has to keep his body balanced with his heels raised just a scant centimeter off the floor.  He can sink fully, but that would be too much and not the trembling equilibrium that he so desires.

“ _Glutton_ ,” Jones says again, his own body affected as arousal sends microcracks through his dominating facade.  However, he seems to remember his purpose and finds a tablet to do his work.  As his pet hangs in deliciously uncomfortable suspension, he takes pictures all over Arthur’s body, not just his arms.  Clearly, this will only happen once.  Then, Arthur grows even warmer as Jones takes a tape measure to him, his fingers lightly teasing him with scant touches as he takes measurements of his arms, his chest, his hips, waist and legs.  Arthur’s entire face heats up with embarrassment as Jones measures the length and girth of his penis.  Exactly who is he sending this information off to?!

Still hovering below, Jones catches his expression and smirks wickedly up at him.  “What?  You have nothing to be embarrassed about, pet.   _Nothing_ at all.”  He takes a stylus and jots the measurements down straight on top of the pictures.  Then he takes another studious look over Arthur again.  “Hmm... I believe we are missing the most important measurement of all,” he muses, his eyes once again on Arthur’s groin.  Arthur is not exactly flaccid, but he’s not at full mast yet.  So Jones idly goes back to the armoire, opening up the top drawer.

As he turns, Arthur sees what he has in his hands and a sharp thrill goes through him.  Jones’ blue eyes focus completely on him as he slips on the soft, black leather fingerless gloves with an achingly sensual and teasing slowness.  His teeth catch the end, tugging the gloves more snugly over his wrist in a motion the Brit has never found so _erotic_ before.  And the _implication_...  His blood quickens, trying to imagine what it would feel like while hooked on this thing.

“Don’t get hard before I even spank you,” Jones chuckles darkly, treading slowly over to him like a panther prowling.  He circles Arthur, heating him merely with the sultry, _hungry_ looks that slowly fill his already overbrimming desire.  He’s not even _doing_ anything and Arthur can feel his need gaining focus and he groans softly.  Jones’ hand wraps around his length, the warm, soft buttery leather and his tight grip on him like an aphrodisiac.  “I told you, don’t get hard,” Jones warns, though he does not sound all that displeased.  His other hand goes to Arthur’s bum, leather sliding against him, those unbelievably strong fingers groping and massaging his trembling flesh.  “Just for that, I’m going to have to spank you even harder.”

Oh yes, yes, _yes_.  

The leathered palm abruptly comes away and slaps Arthur hard.  The thud goes right through his entire body, making his gasp and jerk upwards.  The steel ball moves unforgivably inside him, no mobility on its metal hook to give him any relief.  It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt.  

Jones’ arm wraps tightly around Arthur’s waist and he can feel the steel corded muscle taut against his stomach, keeping him from moving too much for his own good.  Strangely, it makes him feel... _safe_.  Certainly not loved, but protected.  After all, he knows he’s an investment.  Jones won’t hurt him.

Then the leathered palm comes down again and Arthur forgets everything but the delicious shocks of pain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering what Arthur was drooling over, here you go: http://otoshigo.tumblr.com/post/110909133189/ahem-so-this-is-nsfw-i-was-attempting-to-make


	6. Never on the Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this one is certainly more drabble sized.
> 
> No warnings for this one.

It’s morning.

He slowly wakes and feels the warmth of the sun shining brightly through the large windows overlooking the bay.  He stretches languidly, feeling each little muscle warm and each individual notch of vertebrae arch with the motion.  He feels sated, warm, slightly grungy but not unpleasantly so.  Nothing sounds more appealing than simply basking in the sunlight like a coiled snake sunning itself upon a warm rock.

That is when he notices his companion in bed, still sleeping quietly, pretty eyes closed and mouth slightly parted.  Fascinated, he leans in closer, watching the slow rise and fall of the other man’s chest, that face tender in sleep so unlike his wakeful expressions.  There’s something wrong and intimate and _right_ about this, being so close while the other is so unguarded.  Vulnerable.

Carefully, he reaches out, brushing the other man’s blond hair from his face to get a better look at him without those glasses.  _Beautiful_...  Scarcely breathing, he leans in closer until he can taste the other man’s sweet breath.  His heart quickens with an emotion he’s hardly ever felt before, one that frightens and alarms him, though he cannot look away. 

He stops.  There.  Stuck so close and yet so far. 

This is not the nature of their relationship.  It’s all business.  Both of them agreed.  Their hearts were never on the table.  Never _supposed_ to be on the table.

And _yet_...

He swallows hard.

Then pulls away.


	7. Irresistible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder, this is all non-chronological.

The world swims in and out of focus, screaming jets filling up his ears, strange white holes in a sea of beige flickering in front of him.  Arthur shakes his head, trying to get some sort of equilibrium.  He can barely recall just where he was before suddenly blacking out.

Then suddenly, someone holds out a glass of champagne in front of his face.  Arthur blinks, his green eyes focusing on the slender flute and the little raspberry bobbing on the surface of the drink.  “Sir, we should be landing shortly,” the bubbly and attractive stewardess smiles.  She saunters off, making ready for landing preparations.

A thread of alarm goes through Arthur.  Landing?  Landing _where?_   Where the hell was he?!  His head whipped around, the world coming clear.  He’s in a jet.  One of those classy slender private jets, with beige leather and rosewood interiors.  But what was he _doing here?_   And where is his wallet?!

... ** _Alfred_** _._

A snarl curls at his lip and he downs the entire flute of champagne in one go.  Rage boils up in him from his belly, filling him up with poison.  Alfred had _kidnapped_ him from his home!  What _right_ did that entitled, spoiled, self-important little arse have to do such a thing?!  His fingers squeeze the arm of his seat, his anger becoming more potent as each minute passes.  What’s more, Alfred is not even _here_ to answer for his own actions!

Arthur does not doubt that the little prick is waiting for him upon landing.

The minutes tick away like hours when the jet finally begins to descend.  Arthur cranes his neck out the window, trying to discern their surroundings.  Even as night begins to descend, the marketing director almost immediately recognizes the sprawling cityscape spread out below from the many meetings he had here.  Los Angelos.  Interesting choice for Alfred Jones’ _grave_...

The door to the jet opens with a hiss and Arthur is already bolting up to his feet to get to the steps.  He squints out at the blood red sunset glaring into his eyes and has to blink to make out the figures out in front of him.  His simmering rage lets out a frustrated scream as he sees that there is still no arrogant, rich arse to be found.  Instead, two burly blokes line either side of a limo door, their faces expressionless behind their impenetrable sunglasses.

“Where exactly is this going?” Arthur demands, staying his ground.  However, his guards say nothing, only responding by opening up the door to the limo for him.  The Brit stays where he is for a long moment, undecided if he’s going to try to flee or to go along with this nonsense.  After a lengthy pause, he gets into the car, figuring that he would at least see Jones at the end of this tainted venture.  Besides, what else is he supposed to do?  Go to the police and tell them he’d been kidnapped in a private jet by a megalomaniac billionaire?  _Ha._

Arthur all but stews as the views of Los Angelos pass him by.  His guards stay completely silent for the entire trip, the Brit’s questions bouncing off of them like small pebbles.  It makes the trip almost unendurable, particularly in the middle of LA’s infamous traffic.  However, Arthur’s interest piques when he sees that they are coming up to some sort of crowded music venue.  He frowns at the banners posted around the busy crowds and the various paraphernalia that the fans are wearing. 

Fall Out Boy?

“Come this way, sir,” one of his guards finally speaks, opening up the door for Arthur.  The Brit gives him a suspicious glance, but follows the pair as they lead him through the underbelly of the venue.  The area is packed with roadies and groupies and Arthur has to maneuver around them as they head backstage.  He feels incredibly out of place, still dressed in his gray pinstriped suit, rather than rocker shirts and steel.  Moreover, he’s not even a _fan_ of Fall Out Boy, more partial to old school punk himself.

The bloody hell is he doing here?

Music blasts from on ahead, the opening band beginning to wind down from their act.  He can hear screams erupt from the crowd as Fall Out Boy is announced.  Despite himself Arthur does feel a little starstruck when the members of the band brush right by him, high fiving the roadies coming off. 

That’s when he finally spots Alfred.  All the way across the other end of the stage.  “ _You!”_ Arthur hisses, gesticulating wildly at him.  “ _I’m going to bloody kill you!_ ”  The crowds scream even louder, drowning the Brit’s howls of outrage, soon followed by the blast of the music pouring out over the stage.

Alfred looks across the stage at him, swathed in darkness, his eyes bright as he _smirks_ at Arthur.  It does naught but fuel Arthur’s rage, but there is very little that he can do when Alfred’s name is suddenly announced.  Arthur’s jaw drops as Alfred casually strides out into the bright lights in that _ridiculous_ costume of his.  Once again, he’s forgotten that Alfred apparently has some kind of talent for fame.  _How_ he’s managed to hijack a concert, Arthur can only guess is thanks to quite a bit of cash under the table.

“...singing duet on Irresistible!” the lead vocalist calls out to screams of applause.  Then the music starts up again.  A chill runs down Arthur’s spine as the horns and percussion starts, absolutely weak to the feeling of the ground thrumming beneath his feet from soundwaves alone. 

Then an entirely different chill comes down Arthur’s spine as the vocalist starts.

_“Coming in unannounced, drag my nails on the tile  
_ _I just followed your scent, you can just follow my smile  
_ _All of your flaws are aligned with this mood of mine  
_ _Cutting me to the bone, nothing left to leave behind_

_You ought to keep me concealed just like I was a weapon  
_ _I didn't come for a fight but I will fight 'til the end  
_ _And this one might be a battle, might not turn out okay  
_ _You know you look so Seattle but you feel so LA”_

Alfred cuts in with the chorus, his voice clear and perfect and wonderful.  It’s almost mesmerizing, if not for the fact that Arthur realizes exactly why he’s been dragged out here as soon as the lyrics hit his ear.  

_“And I love the way you hurt me  
_ _It's irresistible, yeah  
_ _I love the way, I love the way  
_ _I love the way you hurt me, baby  
_ _I love the way, I love the way  
_ _I love the way you hurt me, baby”_

He’s here to be humiliated.  Why pick a song all about _them_?  About Arthur’s interests behind closed doors?  Mocking him?  This is just another round of the Game.  Every word carefully chosen.  Every note handpicked to make him hurt.  The rest of the lyrics wash over him, mixing in with the sound of his rage buzzing in his ears.  He only hears Jones’ clear voice as it sings out again over the speakers.

_“You're second hand smoke, second hand smoke  
_ _I breathe you in, but, honey, I don't know what you're doing to me,  
_ _Mon chérie, but the truth catches up with us eventually  
_ _Try to say live, live and let live  
_ _But I'm no good, good at lip service  
_ _Except when they're yours, mi amor  
_ _I'm coming for you and I'm making war”_

Arthur doesn’t even stay for the rest of the song, spinning on his heel and heading back through the bowels of the venue.  The guards follow him impassively, making no move to impede his escape.  However, there can’t have been much of the song left as he hears the crowds burst into applause again.  “Take me back to the airport,” Arthur snaps at them, his green eyes burning brightly like lanterns.  The guards lock their hands in front of their groins, keeping him from getting to the limo door. 

“I mean it!  Move aside!” Arthur growls, his hands fisting at his sides.  However, his heightened rage does not move them.  The Brit gives up, turning away with the irrational thought that he’ll just have to walk back to Seattle if necessary.  The sidewalk is empty, all the crowds already inside.  He makes it all the way to the end of the street, when-

“Arthur!” he hears his name called out from behind him.  He doesn’t stop.  In fact his pace quickens.  “Arthur, wait!”

A hand grabs his forearm.  Arthur whirls back, lashing out with a violent swipe of his arm.  “Get away from me!” he snarls, his green eyes like poison as he looks to see Alfred breathless from running.  The boy’s eyes are wide, confused.  As if he _doesn’t_ _know what he’s done._

“Arthur, I-  Didn’t you hear the song?” Jones asks, taking a step forward.

Arthur takes two steps back.  “Of course I did!  That’s why you brought me out here, isn’t it?  To humiliate me?  To air my dirty laundry as if I were a joke?”

Jones gapes at him.  “Wh- but that’s not even my song!” he cries out, grasping Arthur tightly by his arms.  “And _humiliate_ you?  Why would I want to do that?  Arthur, this isn’t what this is at all!  No one even knows-”

The star on the boy’s cheek is the perfect target, as Arthur’s hand strikes him across the face.  The slap is so shocking, that Jones releases him as he takes a step back.  His hand goes to his reddened cheek, his eyes wide and _wounded_.  It’s more than Arthur can take.  “Stop looking at me like that,” he hisses, his eyes narrowing.  “And don’t even try to make this arrangement of ours more than it is.  I know what it is, you power hungry freak.  It’s a convenience!  Fulfilling a boyhood fascination from school!  Well, that doesn’t entitle you to kidnap me from my home!”

Then in his final act of rebellion, Arthur takes the glasses from his face and throws them down to the ground.  Then he crushes them underneath his foot with a satisfying crackle of delicate clask and twisting metal.  “We,” Arthur speaks softly, looking up to the silent figure of Jones staring at him, “are _done._ ”  He straightens, brushing off his indignity from his suit as if it were dirt.  “Now.  Take me home.”

Jones looks at him for a long moment.  Then he slowly nods and waves for the limo to come.  He opens the door for Arthur, who gets in without a word.  Neither say anything on the ride back to the airport and in the painfully long flight back to Seattle.

It’s only when they arrive back at their shared building that Jones attempts speaking.  His former lover swallows, licking his dry lips as he fights for something to say.  “Arthur, I-”

“Don’t talk to me,” Arthur snaps at him, his gaze and his heart still smouldering with his ire, stoked by the boy’s defiance.  It shuts Jones down instantly.  Arthur wordlessly gets out of the car and slams the door shut behind him.  He blinks away tears, barely able to see the keypad as he punches himself into the building.

As far as victories go, never has one ever felt so hollow.


	8. Boundaries

Just at the edge of his attention, Arthur hears his phone buzz with a text message.  He ignores it for now, in the middle of a meeting with his subordinates about their new marketing campaign for one of their offshoot companies.

Alfred is not allowed to interrupt his work.  It’s one of the stipulations in Arthur’s contract.  Still, he feels a lovely heat run through him at the notion that Alfred, fool boy that he is, is thinking of him.

Not that he’s about to let this breach of contract slide, of course...

When he finally has a moment free, Arthur closes the door to his office and takes off his glasses to read the text.  The lenses are non-prescription, but he somehow has _such_ a problem with tiny font while wearing them. 

_[I want to fuck you blind over my father's desk.]_

Daddy issues.  Oh my.  Scintillating as the prospect is, Arthur writes back.

_[Master, whatever are you doing right now?]_

He can just imagine the young man lounging in his office, his tie loosened after a long day’s work, his dress shirt rumpled and sleeves rolled up, powerful, _hungry._   Like a lazy lion.

_[In my office.  Imagining peeling your clothes off.]_

Well, one can’t ever accuse Alfred of being verbose. 

 _[Are you alone?]_ he asks, before getting an immediate response.

_[Yes.]_

Arthur smiles.  _[Right.  Coming.]_

It’s a short trip up the elevators to the second topmost level of the building.  He’s not too out of place here, as his own Vice President of Marketing and Public Relations resides on this level.  However, instead of the usual right, he makes a left and heads to the much less frequented hallway.  Heading down the frosted glass hall, he comes to the end of the lane and looks to the nameplate bolted into the opaque door.

**Alfred F. Jones Jr.  
Vice President**

The marketing director regards it for a half-moment, his hand on the door.  The Vice President title itself is absolutely meaningless.  There’s eight in total, not including Alfred, all with actual responsibilities tacked onto the title.  No, the young man’s being groomed to take his father’s place.  And well... he knows better than to mention the Junior part.  Daddy issues and all that. 

Yet one would be a fool to underestimate him.

Pressing in, Arthur is blinded for a moment by the setting sun as it begins itself descent over Seattle’s skyline.  He blinks rapidly, before his eyes adjust and see the darkened outline hiding in the silhouette of a large plush office chair.

Alfred smirks at him from the shadows, not bothering to straighten as Arthur closes the door behind him.  He reaches under his desk to a button and the door sounds with well oiled _slock-slock_ s.  Arthur cannot help but shiver, his eyes riveted to the younger man, unable to help the delicious feeling that he’s just walked right into a panther’s lair.  Oh, but it is so _tempting_ to forget his mission.

However, he comes when beckoned over to the desk, sliding into Alfred’s lap with practiced ease.  His body heats up as Alfred’s strong large hand comes up underneath his jacket and against his skin, holding him hard enough to bruise.  He gasps as nails dig into his skin and Jones takes advantage, bringing Arthur into a kiss that very nearly wipes his mind clean and fills him up instead with a rich, dark heat.

Then the metal clack and _vrrr_ suddenly distract Alfred from his distraction.

“What the-” he says, looking down only to find one of the many pairs of handcuffs that the Brit owns shackled to his wrist.  The other end attached to the arm of his very expensive executive chair.  “ _Arthur..._ ” he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

Arthur smirks at him, cupping the younger man’s face and hushing him as he presses his thumb to those warm, wet lips.  “Shh-shhh, Master.  I’m sure you’ll get out of it soon.  You are so clever like that,” he says as he slips off of Alfred’s lap and out of easy reach.  “Such a shame, I wanted to play with those new whips tonight.  Then you had to go and bother me during work.”

The smirk broadens as Alfred tests the cuff, his bare forearm flexing with muscle as the wooden armrest creaks in a way that makes a tingle run down Arthur’s spine.  He’d give it less than an hour before Alfred manages to get himself free.  And absolutely pissed to boot.

Having no doubt he’ll be punished later for this, Arthur reaches down underneath the desk and releases the lock.  “I’ll be going back to work now, Mr. Jones.  I hope you have a productive rest of the day.”

A howl of outrage follows him as Arthur exits the office, humming softly to himself. 

One had to set clear boundaries after all.


	9. The Darkest Hour (is just before the Dawn)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings on this chapter: Humiliation play, hoods, sensory deprivation.

"You're free Saturday, right?"

Arthur glances up from his computer, looking to the young Vice President hanging onto the doorway to his office. What did that mean? Was that some sort of code phrase Jones made up in his head or was he actually asking?

The question is innocuous enough. As casual as asking if one wanted to go bowling Saturday. He glances over to his calendar and sees only blank space. "Yes, I am," he replies, interlacing his fingers over his desk.

"Okay good," Jones smiles and then disappears from sight.

Arthur has the distinct feeling that his Saturday is not so free anymore.

On the fated day, Arthur kneels in the center of the red leather bed, awaiting  _some_ sort of explanation for what his Master has planned. It's too early in the morning and the room is low lit and warm. Even though he's naked save for the restricting buckled collar around his throat, he rather feels like curling up and falling back to sleep.

When Jones strides back into the room wearing only a pair of tight,  _tight_  leather trousers, Arthur finds it in himself to wake up a little. The best suits might flatter a man's figure, tapering off slimmer waists and accentuating broader shoulders. Jones has some very fine suits indeed, but the boy has absolutely nothing to hide. Even at the tender age of nineteen, the young man's form is powerfully built, all broad shoulders and chiseled muscle and a rock-solid core. Wrapped up in skin like honey, meticulously groomed. The Brit has no doubt that Jones exercises perfect control over himself, much as he does anything else he can get his hands on.

Mentally lavishing Jones' body, Arthur doesn't notice the accessory in the other man's hands. That is until Jones holds it up for his inspection. "You're going to be wearing this all day, pet," he smiles. A leather hood with only orifices for the nose and mouth, his eyes and ears bound and trapped. Arthur lets out a keen of disappointment. What? Jones has the audacity to dress like  _that_  and he doesn't even get to _see_ him?

"Oh now, be good," Jones purrs, catching Arthur's chin and stealing a breathless kiss with a sharp bite to his lower lip, making Arthur moan. When he takes a breath, Jones murmurs softly, "Behave today and I'll give you a nice reward at the end of the day. Say 'Yes Master.'"

"Yes, Master," Arthur whispers. Only then the situation seems to arise in his mind and his green eyes flick to the hood. Blind and nearly deaf  _all_  day? How will he eat? Get around? Take a  _piss?_

Seeing the apprehension dawn on the Brit's face, Jones gently strokes his cheek. "I won't leave you alone," he promises, his lips tugging into a delightedly dark smirk. "You're mine after all..."

Arthur stares up at the younger man. After a long breath, he gives a small imperceptible nod. After all, he can stop this when he wants to. Taking the cue, the leather hood slips over his head. It's immediately hot, stifling and the inescapable darkness is suddenly terrifying. All he can hear is his blood pounding in his ears. His hands fly up over the leather, feeling only stretching skin where his eyes should be.

Strong fingers grab his, squeezing them hard and staying them at his lap. Warm wet puffs of breath trail over his shoulder, followed by sharp nips and kisses. He feels the words buzz against his flesh, more than hears them. "Shhhh, shhh, pet. I got you. It's alright."

His rapidly fluttering heart begins to calm, his breathing growing even as he grows accustomed to this. After a moment, Jones' voice come through, close but muffled. "Are you hungry?"

"...Yes," Arthur answers and his words sound hot and hollow inside his own head. "Master," he adds belatedly.

He's suddenly cool as Jones slips away from him, presumably off the bed. He yelps when Jones grabs his ankle, tugging him over to the edge of the bed and close up against him, stumbling against the floor. Arthur's hands claw for purchase on Jones' body, hanging onto him like a buoy in the middle of an ocean.

Carefully, Jones leads him out of the playroom, across the weathered wood grain towards the kitchen. Arthur manages to stifle his next yelp as Jones picks him up like a doll and sits him up on what feels like the dining table. He's very slowly getting used to this, but he's not sure exactly how he feels being  _this_ dependant on another person. It's like the most nightmarish trust exercises imaginable, like the ones that they force employees to do on company retreats.

The sheer irony of it makes Arthur laugh aloud.

Jones sharply slaps his lower back, presumably for not taking this seriously enough. Arthur quickly shuts up, but he cannot quite shake the smile. "Peach," the younger man tells him, putting a slice of something sweet and soft and wet to the Brit's lips. It is the most divine peach he's ever tasted in his life. Arthur lets out a soft moan of appreciation, leaning forward and eager for more. Well, clearly there are some perks to the sensory deprivation.

His breakfast isn't limited to the peach however. Nor is it limited to his mouth. He shivers as he feels blackberry trail up his arm and shoulder, raw oyster teased against his nipples, yogurt lapped off of Jones' fingers like cum. He very nearly cums himself as Jones slides a cube of honeymelon along his cock. Fuck, now he knows why Jones was so insistent on scrubbing him clean that morning.

"Not yet," Jones hisses against his neck, squeezing Arthur's length hard. However, the action only makes him all the more hot and sensitive, forcing a gasp from his throat. Just when every inch of him is tingling and his stomach is stuffed, Jones pulls him flat on his back and ties his hands up over his head. "My turn," he speaks, words buzzing against Arthur's inner thigh taking a sharp bite.

That's when his bedeviled master decides to spread the veritable smorgasbord of food all along the length of his body. He squeezes Arthur's bicep hard, and he knows he cannot move, else he'll be severely punished. He trembles, trying not to move a single muscle as Jones mouths a strawberry off of his pec, tongue languidly tracing over his skin.

Christ Almighty.

Jones takes his sweet time, eating slowly and torturing Arthur's already overly sensitized body with licks and sharp nips. His skin is nearly boiling, so hot that Jones could probably fry an egg off his flesh if he wanted to. He cannot help but gasp and writhe, even against the painful warning squeezes against his limbs. His blood drains from the rest of him, sharp hot white arousal centering in on his groin, unable to take it anymore. He cums ingloriously, spread out, messy, so dizzy he thinks he might be sick.

Jones bites him on his thigh, hard, making him cry out in pain. "Look at you, such a mess," he tsks, disappointment burning through the muffling leather.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, Master," Arthur replies, genuinely remorseful. Really, he should be able to hold himself better for more activity. Now all he feels like is a useless lump of spent flesh.

Jones doesn't bother to answer, pulling him up from the table and slinging him like a bag of potatoes over his shoulder. Arthur yelps, his too stuffed stomach uncomfortable and the darkness utterly disorienting. He's awkwardly dropped to his feet somewhere in the penthouse and he has to grab the younger man to keep from slipping. Tile. Cold tile. Bathroom probably.

It's confirmed when Jones forcefully sits him down on the toilet. "Go," he orders, taking a step back.

Arthur's entire body heats up in flustered embarrassment. Wait. Right now? With Jones  _watching?_  He snaps his jaw shut with a click of his teeth, not sure where Jones is. If he's not gaping in the right direction, he would look ridiculous. This is absurd though.  _Humiliating._  No doubt, this is his punishment for coming too early. Every bit of him burns red, his hands coming between his legs in some form of futile decency. Then again, what exactly is his alternative (other than ending this right now, which he won't do). He's going to have to go  _sometime_ and it would be infinitely worse if he has to ask Jones to bring him to the water closet. Or  _worse_ , Jones  _doesn't_ and then makes him piss himself in the middle of the floor.

Mortified and resigned, Arthur clutches his arms and does his business, no doubt with Jones looming over him like a vulture. For a long moment afterwards nothing happens and he wonders if the younger man actually had left him with a bit of privacy. However, his hopes are dashed when a hand spreads him out and cleans him up. Then he's unceremoniously hauled up to his feet again, off to who knows where.

He nearly cries in relief as he's put under the shower just below his neck, warm water sluicing down his sticky naked skin. His legs are still like jelly, but Jones is right there next to him, holding onto him to keep him from slipping. His strong hands are firm but gentle, taking soap and sponge to clean off the mess from breakfast and his cumming all over himself. His head bobs forward, leaning heavily against Jones' shoulder for support. He's exhausted and humiliated, boneless in the younger man's grip. At least it seems that all is forgiven.

Late lunch rolls by along with another messy washing. At least this time, Arthur doesn't have the energy to get himself into even more trouble. Mentally fatigued, he's more than grateful that all that Jones seems to have planned for the lazy afternoon hours is to lounge on the low sofa with his pet strewn over him like a sleeping cat. His calloused fingers lazily trail over Arthur's skin, stroking, petting, constantly moving and fondling him into a slow burn of arousal, but not much more than that. They're both tired.

It's actually rather strange, but this feels much more intimate than anything else he's done that day. It's familiar, affectionate. Even doting. Which seems a strange term indeed to use with someone like Jones. An Alfred though... maybe not so strange with an Alfred.

"Master, I need to piss," he informs the younger man. Jones slaps his bum in response. Not hard, more like a greeting. Then he picks Arthur up into his strong arms and carries him over to the bathroom. Let to his feet, Jones holds onto his waist with a possessive arm, whilst his free hand goes to Arthur's cock to aim. Arthur shivers, a little uneasy that he's gotten used to this so quickly. Then again, maybe it's Jones' possessive mouth at his neck distracting him from reality. Absolutely insatiable that one.

Hauled back to the living room, they don't return to the couch. Instead, Jones sits him down somewhere with a natural breeze, not cool circulated air. Then his fingers go to the clasps at the back of the hood. "Keep your eyes closed," he orders as the leather comes up over his ears. Arthur does, though he gasps at how delicious it feels to have the cool breeze touch his hot cheeks. Like dipping into an oasis after a day in the desert. Those calloused fingers comb through his sweaty locks, airing them out a bit, before they retreat. "Alright, open your eyes. Slowly."

Cracking his eyes open, Arthur winces at the light. They adjust painfully, after a day of pure blindness. Then the sight steals his very breath away.

Goldenrod and violet streak the sky, filtered with fuschia and rich navy. The deep red sun hangs low over Elliott Bay like fruit waiting to be plucked. The waves crest blood orange over the purple water, lapping lightly at the white ships sailing over the bay. It is the most perfect sunset he has ever seen.

Alfred looks quite smug with himself, handing Arthur a much needed glass of cool Sauvignon Blanc. "Worth the wait?" he asks, settling into chair beside Arthur's and lacing his fingers behind his head.

Arthur snorts in response. It's not quite what he had in mind when Jones was talking rewards. Still... He glances over in the younger man's direction, seeing the small tray of cheese and crackers and condensing wine bottle between them. Like a little prize after a long day's work. His lips spread into a smile. "Alfred Jones, are you being sweet with me?" he asks slyly.

Immediately, the younger man - still just a teen - grows defensive. "You behaved all day. Well, mostly. Shouldn't I reward you?"

"Hn, of course," Arthur replies and takes a bit of cheese. He laps the sticky brie off his thumb and watching the other's eyes regard the motion with interest. Yet something between them has shifted. A day might have been too long. Too intense. They are... not as they were before. Not cool and clinical. Not impersonal. They cannot be, not after all that. It's... dangerous.

Alfred seems to sense this too. This unnameable thing. Like they're tethered to each other more intimately than chains ever could. Their eyes stay fixed on one another's, unable to break the spell.

"I should go," Arthur says suddenly, unable to breathe. He dusts off his hands and comes over to press a strangely chaste kiss to Alfred's brow. "I'll see you at work." Alfred only nods and Arthur quickly escapes, heading into the darkened rooms and out of the sun.

 


	10. Son of the Father

“Mr. Kirkland.”

Arthur immediately tenses and bristles.  Two weeks into his arrival at the company and already Jones is breaching contract?  He turns from his new colleagues at the reception, spinning around to greet his contracteur.  Only it’s not Jones.  

At least not the Jones he expects.

Alfred Jones the Senior smiles at him.  Raises his hand.  “Mr. Kirkland.  Welcome to the family.”

Arthur slowly takes his hand and shakes it.  His grip is not the same as his son’s.  It’s firm but congenial.  Not with an edge of threat to it.  The man himself is much the same way.  Built like his son, or rather, his son is built like him - blond, tall, strong, chiseled.  The All-American entrepreneur.  Arthur can see the man that Jones is to be once he loses his boyish features and if he bothers with contacts.  That’s what can immediately be gleaned from any odd picture.  However, what a picture cannot capture is the aura of confident command about him, from the subtlety of his eyes and the cadence to his words.  He is the captain of a ship built by his own two hands.

It takes Arthur’s breath away and all he can think is _‘Ah, this is where Jones gets it.’_

A half-second too late, Arthur replies, “Thank you, Mr. Jones.  I’m honoured to be here.”  He suddenly feels a pair of eyes on him and he doesn’t even need to see who it is.

“It’s good to have someone here from across the pond.  I hope you are able to give us some fresh perspectives.  You came to us from Burberry, is that right,” Jones Senior asks, making polite small talk.  Though it gives Arthur a jolt of adrenaline that the man on Forbes himself knows him by name.  “Have you settled in?”

“Oh, I’ve hit the ground running,” Arthur assures him, taking a quick sip of his champagne to lubricate his nerves.  

“Good, good.  Oh, Mr. Kirkland, have you met my son?” the CEO asks, waving over the Jones Arthur is far more familiar with.  He’d somehow drifted over closer to them in their brief chat, like a hyena lurking in the shadows to scavenge.  Jones, of course, looks immaculate in his signature black suit, black shirt and purple tie.  Arthur can smell the Jack Daniels neat, contrasting his father’s champagne flute, darker, sharper.  He cannot help but compare the two Jones side by side.  “This is Alfred Jones Junior.”

“Father, I don’t care for the Junior suffix,” his Jones says cooly, brushing his violet dyed lock out of his eyes.  “I prefer ‘the Second.’  It implies legacy.  Junior implies inferiority.”

“Oh my apologies.  This is Alfred Jones the Second,” the CEO replies, clearly indulging his nineteen year old son.  

“We’ve met,” Arthur says, holding out a hand to shake Jones’ hand.  “He held my final interview.  It’s nice to meet you again.”  Jones takes his hand and it's different than before.  Sharper, painful.  So _shaken_.  Arthur hides a wince at the sheer force.

 _What_ has Jones is such a tizzy?

Arthur’s mind goes back to the contract and being sworn to absolute secrecy on pain of financially-crippling legal suits.  Is it not the general public that Jones is worried about?  His J-pop fans?  Is it in fact, this hegemon before them?  It would make sense.  Jones has so much more to lose...

But it’s not just that.  His other life, his other experiences tell him so.  Jones is being... territorial.  

“Junior will be taking on an number of responsibilities at the company,” his father says.  “Particularly in regards to this Magical Strike movement that has been developing.  You’ve heard of it, yes?”

“Ah, yes.  We were rather close to it in England,” Arthur replies, watching the way Jones clenches his jaw.  “Of course, it started in France.  It sounds like they took the whole Corpocracy chapter from Cloud Atlas as some kind of prophecy.”

The CEO chuckles and Arthur cracks a pleased smile.  However, Jones only looks blank.  “Oh come on now, son.  You’ve never read the book?” his father admonishes him.

“I was a bit busy learning Japanese and working on my singing career,” Jones replies, his voice tight and controlled.

“A waste of time,” the CEO replies.  “You could have at least learned Mandarin instead.  And you insist on wearing that streak of purple in your hair.  It’s unprofessional.”

Arthur feels his throat tighten and grow thick.  What is this?  Why is this being discussed in front of him?  With a flash of insight, he knows this really has nothing to do with him.  It has everything to do with admonishing his son in front of any employee of relatively little importance.  It’s a power play, meant to cut Jones down to size.  He’s just a pawn in a bigger game.

Even as he’s thinking this, Jones glances at his father and replies, “謝謝。我會考慮下。”

Despite himself, a swell of triumph fills Arthur’s chest.  It’s so difficult to keep from smiling, but he manages - only just.  The urge drops completely as he looks up from his glass to see the CEO’s expression grow cold.  It was a step too far.  Jones shouldn’t have pushed back.  Not like this.

For the sake of peace, Arthur withdraws.  “Well, it’s a pleasure to talk to you.  However, I have a meeting with Laos in an hour.  Please excuse me.”  Turning away, he feels the first fracture in his separation of play and work crack.  He shouldn't be taking sides in this.  Especially not against the CEO.  Yet he cannot help it.  

After all, Jones might be a sadist, but he isn't cruel.

 


	11. For he gave all of his heart and lost

A tap on his shoulder makes Arthur suddenly jerk out of his thoughts.

“Mr. Kirkland, are you alright?” one of his subordinates asks, her expression marred with concern.

With a guilty start, he glances at the clock, only then realizing he’d spaced out for nearly an hour.  _And_ is five minutes late to a meeting in his own office.  His face heating, he gestures to the chair in front of him.  “My apologies, I was brainstorming our Bonnefoy problem.”

Which is a complete lie.

Even now, it’s difficult to hold his attention, his mind constantly drawn back to the ugly squirming mass that Alfred Jones has infected him with.  The young vice president hasn’t attempted to make contact with him in the three weeks since his little stunt in LA.

Which is fine.  Just _fine._   He doesn’t want to be anywhere _near_ Alfred.

...

Honestly, the boy should at least _apologize_ for what he’d done!  Or at least explain what on earth he was thinking in the first place!  One doesn’t just _kidnap_ people across interstate lines.  If Arthur were _anyone else_ , Alfred would likely be locked up with the FBI or the CIA or whatever applied best.

But he’s not anyone else...

“Should I go ahead and type this all up in an email?” Ms. Chelles asks, tugging Arthur back to the present again.

Arthur has the grace to give her a sheepish smile.  “Apologies, my mind’s in the clouds.  Yes, please send me an email.  If you have any questions we can reschedule the meeting.”  With a nod, his subordinate nods and give him a small smile before taking off back to her office.  No sooner than she leaves, than his secretary swoops in.

“Mr. Kirkland, were you able to review that consulting contract?” she titters, dropping off his mail into his inbox.

The very word ‘ _contract_ ’ sets his temper off again and he says tightly, “No.  I will have it done by eight tonight.”  The woman gives him a skeptical look, but nods and heads back to her desk.  Bristling now, Arthur glances over to his mailbox.  Only to stop short.

A small innocuous envelope with his name scrawled over it.  No return address.  But he knows that handwriting anywhere.

Breaking his own rule, Arthur swiftly opens it up and pours out the contents.  A thumb drive and a small handwritten post-it note.  _‘I’m sorry I sang the wrong song.’_   Arthur frowns at it and wonders _how_ the younger man could have possibly missed the entire point of his ire.

Staring at it for a long second, his attention turns to the thumb drive, wondering what it could be.  A virus possibly.  That’s certainly one way to get revenge.  Make him infect the whole system from his computer and get him fired.  Somehow, he knows that Alfred wouldn’t do that to him.

Taking a long breath, he plugs the flash drive in and opens up the file.  He’s heartened to see that his screen isn’t instantly going haywire as he opens it up, as his eyes fall on the single file.  An mp3.  Frowning, he puts in some earbuds from his drawer and opens it up.

Suddenly, he grows still, petrified by a wave of nostalgia.  His own nineteen year old voice singing back at him, a song from ancient memory.  How... _How_ did he get his hands on this?  His throat tightens, sucking a soft shuddering breath.  “Alfred...” he whispers, the name drawn from him as his heart  _aches_.

The song winds down and he plays it again, an unwilling smile tugging at the corners of his lips.  On his third time around, he almost doesn’t notice the company-wide email pop up in the corner of his screen.  He idly clicks it as it’s come from the CEO himself.  Then he goes pale.

> **From:** Alfred Jones, CEO  
>  **To:** All-Staff.lists  
>  **Subject:** Farewell Reception
> 
> Dear Staff,
> 
> You are cordially invited to the farewell reception for Alfred Jones Junior taking place on the third Thursday of August at 7:00 PM.  Please join us in sending him off to his new position of President of our Tokyo division.
> 
> Please see attached invitation for more details.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> _Alfred Jones_  
>  Chief Executive Officer  & President  
>  Jones International Holdings Inc.


	12. I am Ruination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Teenage hormones

Alfred tugs his raincoat tighter over himself, feeling cold and miserable.  The London weather hasn’t let up at all, as it’s rained for a solid two weeks straight every day.  Not hard, never hard, only enough to annoy the shit out of him.

All the money in the world can’t make the sky do what he wants. 

Well, unless he's China.

The young teen contemplates the idea of firing some sort of atmospheric rocket into England’s sky as he kicks a can down along the sidewalk of dreary Soho looking for something to do.  He refuses to admit that he’s lonely, his college-aged classmates wanting nothing to do with a gawky young kid from abroad.  One who so thoroughly intimidates them, he once overheard them _not_ -say as he left the classroom. 

Not exactly an uncommon occurrence.  He’s too young, too rich, too smart.  Too _intense_.  Caused by being raised by a man who showed only the toughest kind of love.  No one ever wants to be anywhere near him, especially not the kids his age. Though he hasn’t considered himself a kid since his mother passed when he was five.

Whatever.  He’s too good for them anyway.

He feels a presence following him, but doesn’t bother looking back.  No way his father would let his fifteen year old heir run off to another country on his own without some muscle looking out for him.  Even though Alfred had expressly said he didn’t _need_ anyone lurking around him and forbad them from getting anywhere near him.  God forbid that his father take him seriously.

Now Alfred contemplates finding some way to ditch them as he grits his teeth.  He’s not used to not getting his own way.  His eyes scan through the slowly enclosing dark to the neon-lit signs flickering on.  If he remembers right, there’s one of these places that has an entrance in the back...  Yes, there!  His eyes lock onto _The Crown and Thorn_ , seeing the post-work crowd spilling out into the drizzle.  He steadies his pace, keeping it casual, striding up towards the crowd.

Then Alfred slips into it, his lanky teen body swimming through the crowd like a fish through water.  “Scuze me.  Coming through,” he calls out, making his way to the other bright end of the pub leading off to an alleyway.  Near the end, he bolts, bursting out into the wet cobbled street and off as fast as he can around the nearest corner.  He keeps it up until he reaches a crowd of people and is forced to a standstill, because nothing draws attention faster than a teen running at top speed in a city street.

Panting softly, he looks around, not knowing where he is.  The rain is getting worse and it’s getting darker.  He knows he has to head inside somewhere before his father’s goons catch up with him.  Then his eyes fall on three fanged skulls on a blood red storefront, the words _Beer n’ Whiskey_ and _Rock n’ Roll_ emblazoned over the top.  Alfred’s eyes go wide as he takes the bar front in.  He can’t really explain it, but there’s something dark and strange about it in a way that calls to him, even as it makes his hair stand on end.

Forgetting momentarily about his trackers, Alfred walks up to _The Crobar_ , only to be met by a broad-faced bouncer.  “Over 18s only,” the man says gruffly, eyeing Alfred up and down.

Snorting softly, the teen takes out his student ID and two hundred quid for good measure.  “Baby face,” he smirks, handing the ID and the folded notes over.  Needless to say, he gets in.

The place is slowly coming to life, although it’s still early out for the crowd.  The place seems strangely _rough_ for Soho, the dive bar’s walls covered in peeling posters and neon skulls and the patrons covered in hair and tattoos.  And the _music_ is so loud the floor is nearly pulsing with it.  It makes Alfred grin.  He saunters up to the bar and looks over the array of bottles.  “Can I help you?” the bartender asks, giving him much the same wary look of appraisal as the bouncer.

“Bourbon,” Alfred replies, affecting the same attitude that his father uses in board meetings.  He looks the bartender square in the eye, his gaze cool and aloof.  There’s no need to dare the man to challenge him.  Only people who have something to prove do that.

After a long moment, the man relents.  “What kind?”

“Pappy’s Reserve,” Alfred replies, remembering his grandfather’s brand of choice.  He turns his attention back to the tight quarters and the jukebox.  “You have a band coming in tonight?”  He can see a corner where some tables are being pushed to the side, making things ready.

“Some local boys at 8.  MasterBaiter,” the barkeep replies with a snort as he pushes the finger of whiskey to Alfred.  “Then EyeHateGod at 11.  You sticking around?”

Alfred considers this a moment and then smiles.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I think so.”

The teen whiles away the hours, slowly sipping at his bourbon as the place becomes more packed with people.  He only ever lets himself get a small buzz, because he _hates_ not being in control, especially over his own body.  Instead, he spends his time people watching, then chatting up and charming some tattooed ladies with his fake Kentucky southern accent.  It’s terrible, but nobody can tell the difference.  He gets real popular real fast as he buys them all a round.  After all, money is meaningless to him, but _attention_ \- Well...

Alfred only realizes that it’s come eight already when he hears a mic screech into the speakers.  He checks his watch, seeing that it’s in fact 9:02.  “Buy us another drink, love,” his bosomed bar companion purrs in his ear, hot against his arm.  He does so absentmindedly, his attention drawn instead through the dark and to the stage out of curiosity.

That’s when, through the dark, through the crowd of arms in the air, through the sharp screams, the croons in his ear, the bright-dark colored lights- Alfred sees _him_.

It’s like he’s forgotten to breathe or everything’s just gone into slow motion.  Or somehow he’s gotten tunnel vision.  Or that he’s been drugged.  Yes, drugged.  Definitely drugged.  Because how else can he explain the chills that run down his spine along with the intense unnameable heat that’s burning him up from the inside out.

The guitarist, so not like the others, who are in grunge T-shirts and jeans.  No, this one, he’s in full punk gear, the leather pants, the shredded skull shirt, all the spiked leather cuffs and that collar.  His body is nearly glittering in the dark light, there’s so much metal on him, either through rings or piercings.  He’s not even all that attractive in the traditional sense, long and lanky, his features just a little too sharp.  But for some reason, Alfred cannot stop staring, his entire body flushed hot and cold.  “B-bourbon,” he tells the barkeep, losing his aloof and powerful edge just a hair, this punk rocker throwing him so off his game.

His eyes stay riveted to the guitarist for the next full hour of music.  His companions lose interest.  Not that he notices.  All he can see is the punk rocker in front of him, so involved in the music he barely looks up.

Come ten o’clock, the band takes a break, heading off stage while the jukebox takes over.  Alfred’s blue eyes follow the guitarist out the back.  Then he goes after without hesitation.  Sifting through the crowd of people, he knows he’s lost his place at the bar for good.  Yet he pushes past the people through to the back and out- outside into the dark and the rain.

It’s suddenly so quiet as the metal door slams shut behind him, his ears still ring from the echoes of the music.  He looks around into the dark, seeing no sign of the elusive guitarist.  All he sees are the garbage bins, their metal illuminated in the wet and the short reach of the overhead light in the dark.  Nothing else.  He’s lost him.

“You’re getting soaked,” a voice calls from behind him and Alfred whirls around.  And there he is, just casually smoking a cigarette as he leans against the wall.  His hair is bright green.  Alfred couldn’t tell in the multicolored spotlights inside, but it looks so perfect on him he didn’t know why he didn’t imagine it that way.  Snorting softly, the guitarist tugs him back out of the rain and back underneath the overhang to the door.  “You know I had that propped open.  Now I have to walk out to the front,” he says, clearly annoyed.

“Sorry,” Alfred says, his voice weak and small.

The punk only sighs and shrugs.  “Whatever.  I’m in no rush to get back in there,” he says, taking a long drag of his cigarette.  “I’m only doing them a favour.  Their normal guitarist is sick and I stepped in.  It’s complete shite, isn’t it?”

“A-um...” Alfred replies, unsure of how to answer.  He barely even heard the music, his attention so focused on the man in front of him.

The rocker glances over at him, his eyes as green as his hair.  They’re absolutely mesmerizing.  “Aren’t you a little young for this place?”

“No, I’m not,” the teen replies, relieved that a little bit of power is coming back to his voice.  “I go to Imperial College, for your information.”  Oh, great.  Now he sounds whiney.

That earns him an appraising look.  “That a Yank accent?” he asks curiously.  “Hn, no surprise.  Lots of international students.”  Immediately, he grows disinterested again and for some reason it just makes Alfred _angry._  

Suddenly, the door swings open, smacking Alfred right in the back.  The teen stumbles forward, falling up against the punk and his sharp spikes and soft leathers.  His mind completely short-circuits as the guitarist’s hands come up to catch and steady him, wrapped up momentarily in the man’s arms.

“Oi, watch it!” the guitarist yells over his shoulder to the offender.

“Sorry,” the voice calls out unrepentantly.  “Now hurry up, Iggsy.  We have to get a few more songs in before we’re kicked off stage.”

The guitarist - _Iggsy_ \- grumbles under his breath and presses Alfred off of him.  He takes another drag and then hands the cigarette off to the teen.  “Here, finish it for me,” he says and then sidles past to head back inside.  The door slams behind the teen, left in the cold with only a discarded fag as a reminder.

Alfred shudders violently, needing to fall back against the wall to get a hold of himself.  He’s never felt such an out of body experience before.  He’s never been so off his game.  Never so impotent, so _out of control._   He trembles, looking down at the cigarette butt in his fingers.  Gritting his jaw so tightly his teeth ache, he crushes it in his hand, ignoring the burn against his skin.

He _hates_ it.

He will find this Iggsy.  No matter where he is, who he is.  Then, he will make him _pay._


	13. Message in a Bottle

**You have one new message.**

**Would you like to hear it?**

....

**You have one new message.**

**Would you like to hear it?**

....

**You have one new message.**

**Would you like to hear it?**

....

**You have one new message.**

**Would you like to hear it?**

....

**You have one new message.**

**Would you like to hear it?**

_[Beep]_

Hi Arthur.  I’m at the gate now.  [pause]  I really hope I see you, but I suppose it’s too late.  [pause]  Look, give me a call later, alright?  I... I’ll see you later.  Bye.

_[Beep]_

**End of message.**

**Press #1 to replay it.  Press 6 to-**

_[Beep-beep]_

Hi Arthur.  I’m at the gate now...


	14. Moonlight Drowns Out All But the Brightest Stars

The third Thursday of August rolls by faster than Alfred can blink.  His transfer takes but weeks, spurred by his father’s personal attention to the matter.  A process that should take months.  Obviously, his father cannot wait to get rid of him. 

The knowledge is less painful than it used to be, though it does still inspire the aged-old vengeful need to show the old man up.  He smirks, feeling the CEO’s glare of disapproval boring into his back, while he attends to setting up the stage in the company’s ballroom.  If he is to be exiled, he may as well have the perfect send off.  What better way than to shove his stardom into his father’s face.

Already dressed to the nines in his villainous stage persona, he taps his phone to check the time.  Only to come up with an empty screen.

Still no word from Arthur. 

Not a text, not a call.  Maybe this really is it.  The end of the road.  The thought hollows him out, the implosion crushing his heart more than his father’s disapproval has ever done.  Pushing the treacherous ache away, he steels himself and turns his attention to another pressing matter.

“Any word on my back up yet?” he asks one of the AV crew, growing a little concerned as the hour nears.  He only receives a few shakes of their heads.  Frowning, he tries the main contact again, only to go straight to voicemail.  Which is merely inconvenient, until he tries the numbers of the other band members.  The same thing happens.

Alfred's head snaps over to his father's direction.  Now the man is merely looking away, supposedly uninterested.  Cursing under his breath, Alfred immediately calls his agent, only for that to go straight to voicemail as well.  A sharp wave of anger rears up his spine, setting the nape of his neck on fire.  _Right_ , who does he know?  More importantly, who does he know that his father _doesn't_?  He tries several more numbers, his breathing hastening as he comes to dead end after dead end.

**_Fuck!_ **

Is that bastard really so petty he'd rather see his son humiliated rather than do something he doesn't approve of?

Of _course_ he is.

Quelling the urge to throw his phone at the floor, he runs his hands back up over his hair, trying to think of alternatives.  "People," he calls to the AV techs.  "I need a mixer and a FireWire _now."_ His tech minions rush to do his bidding as Alfred pulls up his music off his phone.  He'll just go solo then, fucking lip syncing no less.  It's going to suck balls, but the anger that's boiling up the back of his throat won't let him cancel.  Besides, all he needs to do is win them over.  He knows that he has the charisma to do it.

Pulling up his favorite mix, Alfred sequesters himself in the back with his headphones and quickly runs through the list, memorizing his new set list.  As the hour nears, his heart flutters like a bat in a bag as he hands his phone off to techs to do sound checks.  All they do is give him pitiful looks, but he ignores them as he throws his dark confidence out in full force.  He had planned this all along.  Who _needs_ back up?  Certainly not him.

Striding out onto the stage, he peers out into the gathering crowd.  Of course the room is filling up.  Naturally, a farewell reception for the son of the President and CEO is all but mandatory.  Near one of the bars, he finds his father and gives him a triumphant look.  Apparently, this is cause for concern as the CEO comes up to the stage to speak to him.  “What have you done?” his father demands, as if he hasn’t completely sabotaged Alfred’s night.

“I’m playing my music, obviously,” Alfred replies as he drops down to his level.  All the better to look the CEO straight in the eye.

“Junior, you can’t do that.  Our BMI license expired yesterday and your music isn’t yours to play without your label’s permission.”

... _Odd,_ that his father would know this random bit of music regulation.  Also _convenient_ that the license seems to have up and vanished.  Bile rising in his throat, the young vice-president feels his anger flare against his will.

“It’s _my_ music.  No one will _care_.  Not unless they’re complete tools who report me,” Alfred hisses softly.  “And even then all I’ll probably get is a slap on the wrist.”  He pauses, looking his father up and down.  “Except you’d do that, wouldn’t you?  You’d make it worse for me.  You’d ruin me with this.”

His father says nothing.  He looks Alfred square in the eye, his gaze unwavering.

“Oh my God.  You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” Alfred whispers.  “This was your plan all along.  Forcing me into a corner.”  His fists clench at his sides.  “Either prostrate myself to you or destroy one of the only things that makes me happy.”

“You are making this into far more than it is,” the CEO replies in that maddeningly calm tone.  “Now, Junior, are you going to give this silly show up and behave?  Listen to your father for once.”

The words hit Alfred like a low hum, resonating higher and higher until his ears are ringing.  Having nothing more to say, he spins on his heel and climbs back up the stage steps.  The only thing louder than the ringing in his ears is the pounding of his heart.

To the gallows it is.

“Good evening everyone,” he calls out into the microphone, striding across the stage in his long legged boots that echo in the quiet.  "Thank you all for making it to my farewell gig.  It’s been a privilege to learn from all of you.  Now it’s my turn to treat you.  So!  Are you ready to party?"

His subordinates look up, eyes wide and blinking, not quite sure what they've been roped into.  Like awkward man-sheep dressed in stuffy business suits. 

"I _said_ are you ready to party!" he smirks unfazed by the silence, getting a couple whoops for his troubles.  In a perfect world, there would be a band behind him, tuning them up.  Now all he can rely on is himself.  Even if, _especially_ if, the world is trying to crush him.  His hand flies to his AV minions behind him to start the music.  "Hit it!"

Then something that is _not_ his music sounds over the speakers.

Alfred's heart plummets.  His father got to the AV crew.  _How_ did he get to the AV crew?  How is he supposed to sing something he doesn’t know?  How-

Then an all too familiar guitar riff silences his thoughts, sending a jolt of electricity through the crowd.  Alfred’s heart thunders and he waves the AV crew to bring up the spotlight on the figure in the dark.

The bright lights slide up a pair of long legs in tight black skinny jeans, a shredded skull shirt, studded black vest and cuffs and collar, and a bowed head of bright, bright green hair.  His ringed fingers fly across the electric guitar strings, rising in intensity and volume, as the din of the crowd rises in excitement.  It builds, rising in heat and crescendo, timing the rhythm of their blood rushing through their veins.

His arm slams down, once, twice, ending the heart pounding climax and inciting the tipsy corporates into loud cheers.  The guitarist looks up, matching acid green eyes to his own blue.  Without speaking, Arthur nods, stirring into the very song that Alfred had delivered to him weeks ago.

Turning back to the rowdy audience, Alfred smirks and spreads his arm out to the crowd as he falls into the song.  It’s rough at first, having never practiced with Arthur before.  However, he knows the lyrics by heart.

_“Hanging about_

_Down the market street_

_I spent a lot of time on my feet_

_When I saw some passing yabbos_

_We did chance to speak_

 

_“I knew how to sing_

_Y' know an_

_They knew how to pose_

_An' one of them had a les paul_

_Heart attack machine_

 

_“All the young punks_

_Laugh your life_

_Cos there ain't much to cry for_

_All the young cunts_

_Live it now_

_Cos there ain't much to die for_

 

_“Everybody wants to bum_

_A ride on the rock 'n' roller coaster_

_And we went out_

_Got our name in small print on the poster_

_Of course we got a manager_

_Though he ain't the mafia_

_A contract is a contract_

_When they get 'em out on yer_

 

_“You gotta drag yourself to work_

_Drug yourself to sleep_

_You're dead from the neck up_

_By the middle of the week_

 

_“Face front you got the future shining_

_Like a piece of gold_

_But I swear as we get closer_

_It look more like a lump of coal_

_But it's better than some factory_

_Now that's no place to waste your youth_

_I worked there for a week once_

_I luckily got the boot”_

Once they complete the set, flying by the seat of their pants, Alfred drops the mic onto the stage.  He holds a V for victory out to his faceless father in the crowd pitched between shock and roaring approval - a common reaction when confronted with pure punk.  Before anyone can stop them, Alfred grabs Arthur by the arm and leads him to a quiet corner backstage behind the curtains.  “Arthur-” he starts, still wrapping his mind around the fact that the Brit is here, wearing _that._   Whatever happened to the man wanting to keep his head down and doing his job?  “What are you doing here?”

“Hush, I’m in disguise,” the Brit hisses under his breath. 

“ _Disguise?”_ Alfred asks incredulously.  Though he does take another look at Arthur.  True, to the casual observer the stuffy marketing director is unrecognizable underneath the dyed hair and the metal and... leather... and the piercings...  Swallowing reflexively, his blue eyes rake Arthur’s person, hungrily refreshing an image forever burned in his mind.  “Alright,” he says after a moment, “...Iggsy.  What are you doing here?”

Arthur- _Iggsy-_ gives him a flat look.  “Really?  When you’re running off to God knows where without giving me so much as a heads up?”  Really, the Brit makes it sound like he’s heading off to _Timbuktu_ not Tokyo _._   “What about our _agreement?_ ”

“What about it?” Alfred asks softly, searching those green eyes for some sign besides indignation.  “There’s nothing that says we can’t go our separate ways in the contract.”

“Fuck our contract!” Arthur snaps, “I’m talking about _this_.”  With only that preamble, he yanks Alfred down by his feathers and tugs him into a forceful kiss.  They've kissed so many times before, but this is burning, _desperate._   Alfred gasps into it, taken aback for but a second, before he grapples Arthur hard and shoves him against the wall.  His lithe body impacts with a hard thud and the Brit lets out a low moan that makes Alfred's blood go electric.  He mouths at Arthur’s piercings, particularly on his lip, tugging at them with enough force to cause his pet, _his lover,_ to hiss to equal parts pain and pleasure.  The other man’s legs awkwardly come up to lock around his waist, held up by Alfred’s strong arms, his shredded shirt sliding up his pale milky flesh.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, marking up his territory with sharp bites and bruising fingers.  “You’re mine, Arthur.”

“Yours, _yours_ ,” Arthur promises as he gasps for breath, grinding up against Alfred’s groin, the heat between them rising as their need grows.

“Junior!” a voice calls out like a bucket of ice water.  Arthur instantly drops down to the tips of his toes as Alfred whirls around to see the rustling motion of the curtains.  The CEO appears, striding up to the pair of them.  Thankfully blissfully unaware of what had just occurred.  “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?!  You may as well have done Magical Strike’s job for us, singing about corporate anarchy!  And you dropped the C-bomb!  Do you know how many HR complaints we’ll get!  Not to mention, what you’ve just done is horrendously illegal!  Now I’m sorry.  I cannot protect you any longer.  I need to report you to the BMI.”

Behind his shoulder, Arthur - Iggsy - coughs.  “Ah, actually... all o’ dat is me own tune.  I’m de ‘sclusive owner of it.  Na labels ter intifere,” the Brit informs him in a hard- what is that- _Liverpool_ accent, raising his chin as he looks down on the CEO.

“Who the hell are you?” Jones Senior asks, his blue eyes blazing on this interloper.  Alfred is _amazed_ that his father doesn’t recognize him. 

“Oh sorry ‘bout dat,” Arthur replies with a shrug, holding out a hand.  “Iggsy’s de name.  Iggs fer short.  Nice ta meet’cha Mr. Jones.”

His father looks at Arthur’s hand as if it’s a diseased rat.  “Where did he come from?” he asks his son instead.

“Well, Britain, obviously,” Alfred replies, the corner of his lips twitching in amusement as his father turns as purple as a plum.  He gently pats the CEO on the arm.  “There, there~  It’s alright.  I’ll be gone soon enough.  Just let it go.”  He takes his father by the arm, leading him out towards the curtain before showing(throwing) him out.  “Have a drink on me!”

Turning back to Arthur, a rather uncharacteristically giddy smile spreads across Alfred’s face.  To which the Brit smacks him on the arm, sharper for all his rings.  “You didn’t have a music license?!” Arthur hisses under his breath.  “Are you insane?!  What if I did a cover?!”

“I thought you knew about that,” Alfred replies, smiling despite the thrill of delayed panic that crawls down his spine.  “What with riding to my rescue the way you did.”

“You bloody fool, I wanted to get the jump on you to try to convince you not to leave!” Arthur snaps back.  “How could I have possibly known you don’t have a license!  Admittedly, I thought it was odd you didn’t have any backup, but you’re just arrogant enough to pull _that_ off.  Besides, do you think I just had this lying around the office and threw it on minutes before you started?!” he demands, gesturing to his attire and bright green hair.

“I don’t know, pet, you do keep all kinds of bizarre things in your desk drawer,” Alfred answers with a wicked smirk.  He only receives another smack on the arm for his teasing.

“Cor, I never thought I’d feel thankful my music never took off,” Arthur mutters, his tone growing sour.  His foul mood is easily wiped clean when Alfred grabs him, seizing him back into a delicious, hungry kiss.  “Alfred...” he murmurs, his breath hot against the younger man’s skin, “what about... What about Tokyo?”

“It’s alright,” Alfred replies quietly.  “We’ll figure it out.  For now, I have you and you’re _stunning._ ”  Arthur’s face goes red in that way that Alfred will come to learn that he will always deny, flushed at the compliment.  Smirking, he kisses both the Brit’s cheeks, his thumb playing roughly with the silver threads looped in Arthur’s ear.  “So, before my father completely tears down the stage, would you like to do another set?” Alfred asks, sucking harshly on the other man’s lip ring.

Arthur presses him back to give him a wary look.  “Should I be worried that you know _more than one_ of my songs?”

The younger man’s lips stretch into a predatory smile.  “ _Very._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, let's just pretend that the song is not one of the many of the highly, highly successful 'The Clash'. 
> 
> Ah, irony.


	15. London Calling

As it turns out, just because one is _assigned_ to Tokyo doesn’t mean that one has to _stay_ in Tokyo.  Under the guise of company duties, the new president of the JIH, Inc. Tokyo branch has stayed in his office for all of about two months in the year since his transfer.  Oh, there’s perfectly reasonable explanations for what he’s doing - building contacts with counterparts in Europe, developing infrastructure in Africa, expanding trade relations in Asia, lobbying in Washington DC.  It’s dizzying how the young man can possibly be in so many places in such a short amount of time.

Arthur thinks that Jones Senior made an _irrevocable_ miscalculation in sending his son abroad.  Alfred has autonomy now, which is the worst thing the CEO could have possibly done.  In another year, maybe less, the son will eclipse him entirely in his path to global corporate domination.  After all, the Board of Directors cannot argue with _results_.

Still...

Curled up of the sofa in Alfred’s penthouse, Arthur fiddles on his tablet waiting for Alfred to come onto Skype.  He’s all but moved in now, his own sad little flat two stories below vacated.  Though still being leased on Alfred’s dime for the sake of appearances.  He shouldn’t complain.  He sees Alfred just about every other weekend, whether the younger man comes back to Seattle or he just has his private jet come to fetch Arthur.  Yet this budding, delicate thing between them - even if reinforced by steel and leather - feels so interrupted.  Each meeting between them just a frustrating half-start to something greater.

Quite frankly, it’s also exhausting.  Alfred jokes that he’s getting old, but Arthur can see the young president beginning to develop baggy eyes.  Honestly, he wonders how long they can keep this up.  Guilt pools low in his belly at the traitorous thought, knowing that Alfred is bending over backwards trying to make this work.

_‘Doop-de-doop be-boop-boop’_

His eyes flick down to his tablet and taps the screen.  It immediately darkens, showing a dimly lit hotel room as backdrop to Alfred’s tired face.  “Hi there,” Arthur says softly, unable to help but smile at how disarmingly sweet the other man looks when he’s sleepy.  “Where are you?  It looks dark.”

“M’n’London,” Alfred mumbles, yawning wide as he rubs his eyes and smudges the purple star on his cheek in the process.  His stage persona must have made an appearance somewhere. 

Despite himself, a pang of envy resonates through Arthur’s very bones.  “3 AM?” he asks, always knowing the time in London without need for calculation.  A rather useless superpower if ever there was one.  “That’s quite early.  I could have waited another three hours.”

“Nah, I’ve flight ‘n an hour,” the younger man replies, waking up a little as he comes back to the screen with some coffee.  Likely some room service French pressed 100% arabica something.  Spoiled brat.  “M’ goin’ to Dubai.  I’ll be back here in a day or so though.  Want to come?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Arthur answers quickly, not caring that he hasn’t checked his schedule or requested the vacation time.  He’ll _make it work._   Alfred smirks, apparently pleased that Arthur is so transparent.

“Alright, I’ll send the jet.  If you can make it earlier, I’ll still have the room.”  Before Arthur can inquire what hotel he’s even in, a darker smile yet spreads over Alfred’s face and Arthur knows his relaxing evening is shot to hell.


	16. Bound and Fettered

The smile is nigh impossible to keep off his face.  It’s just as well that Jones has completely taken over his wardrobe, as he may very well have given into his temptation to wear office-inappropriate rainbow flair into work.  After all, victories are victories, even if not in one’s homeland.

Arthur assumes that his coworkers might suspect, from his good mood and his purple-hued attire (he really couldn’t help himself).  It’s none of their business, but he does enjoy making them wonder.

Coming back up to his office from the cafeteria, he somehow manages to get the elevator all to himself and with it the gorgeous view of Elliott Bay.  Smiling still, he leans against the metal bar railing, watching the sunlit dappled waters and the bright rainbow sails donned just for the occasion.

_‘Ding’_

The doors slide open out of the corner of his eye.  Arthur immediately straightens up, making himself look presentable.  Then he sees it’s only Jones.

 _Only_ Jones.  Ha.

The younger man strides into the glassy space and the metal doors shut behind him, taking with it all the air in the small compartment.  Arthur’s entire body goes hot and tense, as though he’s being stoked in white hot coals awaiting the hammer.  He knows it’s the middle of the work day, so Jones wouldn’t - _shouldn’t -_ come after him.  Yet as those sharp eyes slide over to him and those lips smirk, he cannot help but feel the exhilarating sense of threat emanating from the younger man like a sharp musky scent.  A shiver runs down his spine, his body rigid.

“You look as if I’m about to attack you,” Jones smirks, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

Arthur manages a snort and doesn’t dignify that with a reply.  He turns back to the view over the bay, trying to allay the hungry tension with sunshine and rainbows.  “You must be quite pleased,” he says, inevitably pulled back into his good humour, “about the legislation that is.”

For a long moment, Jones doesn’t answer.  When Arthur’s sure he’s ignored him, the younger man replies, “No.  Not really.”

Immediately, the Brit whirls around to face him, his temper flaring in jagged defence.  “Ex _cuse_ me?” he hisses, incensed. 

Jones looks up from the floor, meeting Arthur’s eyes.  For just a split second, he sees the gaping chasm stretching out before Alfred’s feet.  Bottomless darkness, the other side hopelessly dim and far.  The intensity of it forces Arthur back a step against the glass, his breath sucked from his very lungs.

Then just as suddenly, haunted look in Alfred’s gaze shuts down and Jones is back in complete control again.  “It makes no difference to me,” he says quietly, before they fall into a heavy and suffocating silence.  After several agonizing seconds, the door _‘dings’_ and opens.  “Excuse me,” Jones says, stepping out of the sunlit glass elevator and into the hollow fluorescent halls of his father’s offices.

Shaken, Arthur runs a hand nervously through his choppy locks.  Just like that, his good mood has been snuffed out like a candle.  He suffers a thought that he never believed he would ever have about his keeper.  It makes him sick to his stomach.

_That poor, poor boy._


End file.
